


The Hockey Robot

by Purple_Slippers_18



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cyborgs, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Gender Stereotyping is Not Cool, Hockey Butt Appreciation, Hockey Robots, M/M, Masturbation, zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 13:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7317727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Slippers_18/pseuds/Purple_Slippers_18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Richard Bittle came to Samwell University for one thing: to meet the legendary Hockey Robot, Jack Zimmermann. </p><p>When he finds out that Jack isn't actually a robot, just a regular human, the small southern baker is more than a bit disappointed. He was hoping to find someone who was like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Skate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric Bittle came to Samwell looking for the legendary Hockey Robot, Jack Zimmermann. What he gets instead is a naked man named Shitty, his pecan pie violated by nineteen hockey bros, and a cranky team captain who isn't what Eric expected at all.

Eric let the last notes of _Survivor_ ring through his body, shaking him up with all the fabulous vibes that he needed to counteract the jittery nervous energy that left the fingers of his right hand tapping uncontrollably against the pie tin he was cradling.

Queen Bey had always provided just the right sort of inspiration whenever Eric was feeling overwhelmed, her words speaking directly to his soul in every situation that he needed her for. There was a reason his personal motto was ‘ _What would Beyoncé do?_ ’, and right now, standing outside of Faber Memorial Rink about to introduce himself to nineteen jocks with nothing but a smile and a pecan pie, Eric needed to remember that he was ‘ _gonna make it_ ’ no matter what.

Maybe he should have brought some mini pies. Damn! Too late now.

The song ended. Eric tucked his phone and earbuds into his pocket, took a deep breath, and waltzed into Faber, standing as tall and as confident as he could. He felt like Dorothy entering the emerald city for the first time, not just because he most certainly wasn’t in Georgia anymore, but because everything was…well, green.

The tile, the railings, the box office, the brick, the floor mats, the ceiling, all of it was green. Even the hastily put together bristol board sign with crooked block lettering that said ‘ **Welcome Frogs: Enter at your own risk** ’ was an eye stinging neon green that clashed nauseatingly with the rest of the arena. Those irritating nerves were starting to tingle along Eric’s skin again and now his left foot was tapping like a spastic spring ready to snap. Closing his eyes, Eric hummed the chorus of _Survivor_ to himself, his soft notes echoing around him in the empty space. He’d made it this far, and all on his own, and he wouldn’t be able to look himself in the mirror with any kind of respect if he turned back now.

Opening his eyes, Eric read the sign again and chuckled, seeing that surely it was just a joke made by the upperclassmen trying to rattle the freshmen ( _frogs?_ ) like any other college hazing ritual. He’d read about hazing, about how it happened on every campus, in every club, and how there was, usually, nothing really malicious in it. He also remembered that Samwell had a very strict no tolerance policy which he’d stored to his memory in case he needed a quick reference, so he wasn’t in any danger, just likely in for a bit of teasing, which he anticipated anyway given the fact that he was a five foot seven kid about to join a college hockey team.

There was nothing to be worried about.

Shaking loose any leftover nerves, Eric followed the signs directing him to the locker room.

He smelled his new teammates just a fraction of a second before he actually heard them. The bitter scent of sweat and a dozen different aftershaves was not nearly as overpowering as the sound that poured from the belly of the beast, so to speak.

The voices of nineteen young men were a jumbled cacophony echoing down the hall, a hodgepodge of accents and tenor and volume levels. It added to the Wizard of OZ metaphor Eric had come up with earlier as he definitely felt like he was approaching a great and powerful something. He held the pie close to his chest and turned the corner. He knew the moment he entered the locker room that he had to be in the land over the rainbow, because milling about before his eyes was a sea of aesthetic perfection one could only find in an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog or the artwork of David Kawena. This was not real life.

Everyone was fit and young and thick with muscle and in all stages of undress. Eric didn’t know where to look, where not to look, and why was he suddenly breathing so heavily? Did it get warmer? Weren’t arenas usually cool?

 “Hey, little foggy,” someone exclaimed loudly to Eric’s right, followed by a very firm, hard clap to the shoulder that halted Eric’s brazen appreciation of the scenery.

“Oh. Hello,” Eric said, cringing at how his voice sounded so unsure, his Georgian twang thicker than molasses. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hi.”

He turned to take in the man at his side. He was tall, although every guy in the locker room was taller than Eric. He smelled faintly of marijuana, nail polish, and soap, a strange combination, and he had a mustache of rather marvelous bristliness covering his upper lip. His hair, a shiny chestnut, was longer than Eric was used to seeing, just past his shoulders, and his green eyes were filled with a promising welcome softness.

He was also as naked as the day he’d been born.

“The name’s Shitty,” the guy said, clapping Eric’s shoulder again and pulling his body close into a jostling one armed hug.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not. I’m certain you have a very nice name,” Eric said, confused by what his life had become in the three minutes since he’d breached Faber’s threshold. A naked man was hugging him, for goodness sake! If only Coach could see him now.

“Naw, bro. Not a shitty name. My name _is_ Shitty.”

“Oh…really?” Eric asked. He didn’t remember seeing anyone named Shitty on the team rooster or in the academic records. He even scanned his memory files quickly but came up with nothing.

“Chyeah. Hockey nickname, you know. You’ll get one too, just like the other Frogs.”

“Frogs?”

“New players. Umm…there’s one. Hey! Wicky!”

“Hey, Shitty,” one of the fully dressed boys shouted back before returning to lacing up his skates.

“His name isn’t really Wicky, is it?” Eric checked. Shitty smiled.

“You learn fast, young Padawan,” Shitty teased. Eric’s eyes widened and his spine stiffened, but when he realized that Shitty was just joking he relaxed. Sort of. “I’ve already got the perfect hockey name picked out for you.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“Sure I do. You’re Eric Bittle, our very own Southern Junior Regionals figure skating Georgia peach.”

“How’d y’all know that?” Eric asked. Shitty tutted and shook his head.

“Alas, my sources must remain a secret, but when Coach Hall introduced the frogs to the rest of us you were the only one unaccounted for. I put two and two together.”

“Oh no, really?!” Eric moaned. “They took attendance?” He shouldn’t have dawdled outside so long.

“Don’t worry, Bitty. You’re here now, that’s what Coach Hall cares about.”

“Bitty?”

“Although,” Shitty continued, ignoring Eric’s confusion and moving to stand in front of him, still proudly naked, hands on his hips as he addressed Eric with a spark of mischief in his green eyes, “being late to first skate isn’t gonna get you any points with the Captain. You’re gonna have to really bring your A-game to the ice to impress Ja—is that a pie?”

“Yes!” Eric answered quickly, looking down at his arms to the dessert he was cradling like an infant. Where were his manners? Smiling, Eric held the pie out in his hands. “It’s for everyone to share. I hope y’all like pecan pie.”

“Fuck yeah! Hey bros! Bitty made pie!”

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Shitty scooped the pie tin out of Eric’s hands and walked towards the centre of the room. His announcement certainly got everyone’s attention and most the team moved to circle Shitty and look at the sweet smelling treat he carried. Eric sighed, glad. It was always rewarding to see people enjoying the food you made...

…and then a tall blonde guy in nothing more than a jockstrap dug two fingers into the middle of Eric’s beautiful creation before sucking them into his mouth like he was in a bad porno.

“Oh, dear Lord, no…” Eric gasped as another player (the goalie if the pads were any indication) who had literally just had his hands down his pants to scratch at his balls, used that same hand to tear at the crust and shove it in his mouth. “Wait! Y’all! Stop!”

But there was not stopping the massacre once it began. Every player in the locker room went after the pecan pie like it was the puck in a sudden death overtime. They chomped and smacked and sucked their teeth, talking with their mouths full as they cursed in grateful unison the superior quality of the dessert they were tearing apart. Bitty watched, disheartened as his sweet, innocent pie was ravished by the barbaric members of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team. Not even their expletive laden compliments could make him forgive the horror.

“You’re Bittle?” the giant of a blond man in a jockstrap asked, coming to stand before the distraught baker. Sniffing, Eric nodded. “That was the most fucking delicious pie I’ve ever had in my fucking life!”

“Thank you,” Eric said, reaching to take the crumb coated ( _and dented? How the hell did they dent it? Were those teeth marks?!_ ) pie tin from his teammate.

“Adam Birkholtz, but call me Holster,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Eric replied, shaking his hand and bringing up Holster’s academic profile from his memory bank.

’ _22\. Sophomore. Economics major. 3.7 GPA. Athletic scholarship – full ride pending academic integrity. Defenseman. #4. From Buffalo, New York. Suspend once in high school for an incident involving the music teacher and a piccolo._ ’

Eric added ‘ _avoid being alone in the same room with Birkholtz, jockstraps, pies and piccolos,_ ’ to his teammate’s profile and stored the info in his RAM all in the few seconds they shook hands.

“Rans! Get your ass over here!” Holster yelled, his voice booming over the mob. A dark, handsome man with cheekbones that could cut glass saddled up to Holster’s side. He was one of the very few who was fully dressed.

“What, bro? You’re not in gear yet? Captain’s gonna make you do extra suicides if you hold us up.”

“Captain can try,” Holster challenged with a shrug. “And stop being so fucking rude, Justin, and introduce yourself to Bittle.”

“Bitty! His name is Bitty!” Shitty’s voice cried from somewhere in the locker room, hopefully his cubby where he was _finally_ putting pants on.

“Good to meet you, Bitty. Justin Oluransi. Otherwise known as Ransom, other-otherwise known as the better half of this defense team!” he bragged, throwing his arm around Holster’s neck in an affectionate squeeze.

“Fuck you!”

“Hi. Eric Bittle. I mean, Bitty, I guess,” Eric nodded at Ransom, quickly pulling up his academic profile as well.

‘ _Canadian. Born in Toronto. 20. 4.0 GPA. Biology major. Partial academic scholarship. Sophomore. Facebook and Tumblr. Requires special arrangements for exams. Defenseman. #11._ ’

“Better suit up, Bitty,” Ransom said, “or you’ll be stuck doing drills ‘til dawn with this micro penis.”

“Chirp, chirp, chirp,” Holster snorted as he followed Ransom towards the cubbies.

Eric sighed as the rest of his team quickly finished changing. He thought about bailing one last time before deciding that he’d come this far. Besides, there was a reason he’d come to Samwell, had joined the Men’s Hockey team. It was a very important reason and darn it, Eric wasn’t going to admit defeat until he looked his reason in the eye and said ‘ _I’m Eric Bittle. Are you the same as me?_ ’

It was as exciting as it was nerve-wracking.

He suited up as quickly as he could and ambled out towards the rink. The wonderful steely scent of ice greeted Eric and he took an indulgent deep breath. It had been a little better than a month since he’d last skated. Though the mechanics of it were easy to remember, it was the way he felt the muscles in his thighs tighten deliciously when he took his first step out on the ice, how his body fell into that natural squat to allow smooth movement, how his feet positively itched to just take off and never stop, his stomach twisting with adrenaline at the thought of going faster and faster and faster.

He couldn’t wait.

“Alright boys, just a few things before we get started,” a man with a clipboard began (Coach Hall, Eric  found out when he quickly scanned through his picture file of the _Samwell University’s Athletic Association_ quarterly newsletter, volumes 1 – 40) but his words fell on deaf ears once Eric noticed the lone skater doing laps around the rink.

He was tall, had wide shoulders, and every time he made a full circuit he’d swish to centre ice and slap shot a puck into the net. He moved like he was part of the ice, like his gear and pads were his own skin, like his stick was an extension of his body. It was the most beautiful thing Eric had ever seen.

That had to be him, the reason Eric had come so far from home, the person he was determined to meet, to ask if it was true: were they the same?

“He’s a beaut, isn’t he?” Shitty whispered close to Eric’s ear, chuckling when he jumped.

“W-what?” Eric asked, blushing.

“No need to be shy. I totally get it. I mean, besides the fact that he’s basically an Adonis, has the best ass this side of the Appalachians, and some of the silkiest mitts I’ve ever seen, he’s Jack Zimmermann, right? Jack-fucking-Zimmermann!”

“Jack…” Eric sighed, watching as he came to centre ice and made one last slap shot before turning his attention to the boys joining him. “Is it true?” Eric asked as he and Shitty edged onto the rink.

“Is what true?” Shitty asked, going a bit stiff. His mustache looked like it was ready to bristle.

“About Jack. You know, the hockey robot thing.”

“Oh, that,” Shitty sighed, the tension leaving the corner of his mouth. “Um, yeah, pretty much. I mean, the guy lives hockey, like _lives_ it, you know? He doesn’t do much else except eat, sleep, breathe, dream hockey. I bet he even jacks off to it, honestly.”

“The Hockey Robot,” Eric said in an awed whisper. He didn’t need to reference all of the articles he had stored to his RAM on Jack Laurent Zimmerman. He’d read them hundreds of times, knew that he was the wunderkind of the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, was the projected top draft pick for the NHL in 2008, disappeared from the game for three years before joining the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team where he was currently beginning his second year as Captain.

‘ _Jack Zimmerman. #1. Captain. Centre. Games Played: 58. Average Goals per Game: 2.5. Shooting Percentage: 8.1%. Son of Bad Bob Zimmermann. 23. Canadian. Born in Montreal. Appeared twice in **The Hockey News** , once in **The New England Hockey Journal** , and had a derriere mention in **Cosmo**. Known throughout the game as The Hockey Robot._ ’

Eric watched Jack watching the boys start their warm-ups, seeing him criticize their movements with sharp blue eyes and a perpetual frown.

“Come on, let’s go say ‘hi’,” Shitty said enthusiastically, leading the way towards Jack. Bitty mustered all of his courage and followed, his own enthusiasm at finally meeting Jack Zimmermann making him feel as if he were flying across the ice. “JZ!”

“Don’t call me that,” Jack groused as he turned to greet Shitty. His eyes ( _wolf eyes_ ) zeroed in on Eric immediately as he stopped in front of him. Eric couldn’t help his smile, his expression open and inviting as he looked at Jack, took in the smooth perfection of his complexion, the sharp angular jut of his cheeks, his nose, his jaw. He had wonderfully dark bushy eyebrows and just a shadow of stubble.

He really was a beautiful man, and Eric worried that the battery in his chest might drain since his heart was beating so fast. He could feel the blush rising up his neck and a very different kind of flush churning low in his belly and down his thighs. He licked his lips.

“Jack, meet Bitty,” Shitty said, patting his Captain on the shoulder.

“Eric Bittle, actually.”

Jack gave Eric a long and thorough once over, as if he were cataloging him, perhaps even storing him to his memory. That made Eric’s breath hitch and he stared at Jack closely, looking deep into his eyes, looking for that brief, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tell-tale charge of electricity that danced like thin lightening along the outer edge of an iris when the motherboard was storing data.

There was nothing.

Not even a tiny spark.

Eric felt his smile wilting. He was confused. He scanned Jack’s neck, looking closely at the small hairs that always stood on end due to the brief electric surge from information sorting itself in the brain. Not a single hair moved. Feeling a heavy rock of dismay begin to settle in his gut, Eric adjusted his hearing, his microchip enhanced cerebrum amplifying his acoustic nerve so he could hear Jack’s heartbeat through layers of space, clothing, and muscle. There was no gentle whirring buzz of a battery keeping a charge, only the simple steady _bump_ , _bump_ of a normal human heart.

“Bittle,” Jack said, his accent thick and sharp and dripping with irritation. Eric's shoulders slumped as his disappointment covered him like a cloak. “You were late.”

Eric felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes, feeling like he was watching all of his hopes and dreams crumble to ash like burnt pie crust between his fingers. He didn’t try to defend himself, didn’t say a word as Jack scolded him, told him he wouldn’t tolerate tardiness and to start doing laps with the rest of the boys, hustle, hustle. Eric did as he was told without complaint, staring at his skates the whole time. He never turned back to look at Jack over his shoulder, didn’t even reconsider asking Jack the question he’d so wanted to ask for months and months. What was the point when the answer was so obvious?

It all felt like such a waste now. He’d come so far, had done so much, had worked so hard just to see Jack Zimmermann and to come face-to-face with the Hockey Robot, but it was all for nothing.

Jack Zimmermann wasn’t a hockey robot. He was just a normal human being.

He wasn’t like Eric at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious about David Kawena's art, [ check it out! ](http://davidkawena.deviantart.com/)
> 
> Well, I hope more than anything you are intrigued and will come back for more. This is just the start...


	2. Team Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty thought Team Breakfast would be a great way to break the ice with his teammates. Jack, of course, makes even a simple cinnamon roll difficult.

**E.R. – I.C.B. Vlog #221 | 08.08.2013 | 07:12:52 | Recording…**

_‘So…I’ve made a bit of a miscalculation._

_‘Jack Zimmermann isn’t a robot._

_‘In retrospect, this makes perfect sense. I mean, how did I get it into my head that an honest to goodness actual robot was out and about and playing hockey in Massachusetts? Ha! Saying it out loud sounds crazy, even to me, and I’m the fool who thought it up in the first place! But I guess when you want something to be real so bad all reason just pours right out your ears._

_‘Hockey Robot…pssh! Ridiculous._

_‘I was just…I hoped…I really wanted it to be true. I didn’t wan—doesn’t matter._

_‘Hmm…_

_‘But, no time for sulking! As Coach once told me: “_ if the bushel is spoilt, you can always get peaches in a can. _” Which, number one let me just say that I **do not** approve of artificially sweetened, sliced, diced, and canned for my convenience peach **anything** \-- thank you very much! – and two, I think what Coach was trying to say was that there’s always another option; you don’t have to feel like you’re stuck just because things didn’t work out the way you expected them to._

_‘So, Jack Zimmermann isn’t an actual hockey robot. That doesn’t mean I hitched 1,058 miles for nothing. Just because Jack’s not like me doesn’t mean that I’ve wasted my time coming up here. I really like the campus – it’s so beautiful – and there’s so many people, mighty friendly too, for the most part. There’s some really interesting classes about food culture that I’m thinking I can hack myself into, and of course there’s the LGBTQ community. Aside from the promise of a hockey robot, that was the most influential reason I came up here. I mean, if anything, I should be accepted for who I am in the #1 LGBTQ-friendly campus in North America, right?_

_‘The boys – who I’m still trying to figure out – are really a great bunch of fellas once you get past all that pie murdering…and the jock posturing…and the no respect for personal boundaries…and the hygiene...and just the overwhelming amount of hockey bro – although I’m pretty sure Ransom and Holster’s only setting is hockey bro._

_‘…I can still smell Holster’s jockstrap..._

_‘Ehm…_

_‘But there’s the rest of the team, of course! I haven’t had chance to become acquainted with all of them yet. Ollie and Wicky are the other Frogs – not actual frogs, obviously, but the newest players; you know, because they’re green? Now that I get the joke it’s pretty funny – and there’s also Johnson. He’s our goalie…and I can’t say much more about him because I honestly haven’t understood a single word he’s said to me this whole week. He’s weird, and that’s all._

_‘Shitty is by far the teammate I know the most about, and not just because I’ve seen him naked six times now. He’s really the most friendly outta the bunch, although I’m not sure if that’s his natural disposition or because he’s high at least 70% of the time. Either way, he’s always real encouraging. He congratulated me yesterday on not being a bigoted dickface cockhole **and** a Southern gentleman. Strange compliment, but I’ll take it. It’s funny that I know Shitty the best out of all the team, but I still can’t find out what his first name is…_

_‘It’s not just the boys keeping me at Samwell, though, or any of the other reasons I mentioned. I worked damn hard to get into Samwell. I mean…well, you know, it wasn’t that easy. Just because my brain is 15% CPU doesn’t mean that I didn’t have a helluva time falsifying all those damn endless identity documents. Not to mention the hours I spent making fake school records, athletic achievement awards, health files, photoshopping pictures from the Southern Junior Regionals, or that tape I had to doctor._

_‘And do you know how hard it is to hack into a university mainframe?_

_‘…not very, actually, but that’s not the point! Sure, slipping past Samwell’s firewalls and disabling their anti-virus software was something I could do in my sleep, but the emotional trauma! I didn’t account for how it would make me feel! I had to delete someone from the register so that I could take their place as the full-ride athletic scholarship champion figure skater turned hockey player! It’s been eating me alive, just look! I’ve been making guilt pies the last three days!_

_‘…mmm…so good…try adding cloves in the crust next time….genius…_

_‘And I guess the reason I’ve been feeling guilty is because after that first skate I was just so mortified that running away felt like the only option. I had my bag half packed before I snapped out of it. I mean…I got nowhere else to go._

_‘Samwell…it’s as good a fresh start as anywhere else. I mean, no one really knows me, who I am, **what** I am, what I can do, and if I play it safe then they never will. I could have an actual college experience. Hell, I could have an actual life…like Coach said…_

_‘…_

_‘They call me Bitty, the boys on the team. Here that! My very own hockey nickname: Bitty! I didn’t get it at first, but it turns out there’s this whole hockey science for turning some part of your name into your hockey nickname, which is how you will be addressed for life by your teammates. I actually…I really like it. I mean, I’ve gone by Eric my whole life. It was the name I was given, I didn’t have any say and while I do like my name it just…it’s a name that belongs in the past. Hearing people call me Eric…makes me think of Coach, Atlanta and Madison, and all of the things I left behind to come here. So I’m thinking a new name for a new start._

_‘Bitty._

_‘Suits me, don’t cha think?’_

**End Recording | Saving…**

Bitty waited the few seconds it took for his vlog to save to his internal hard drive before carefully ejecting the USB connector secreted in his left hand from his laptop. It always felt funny to connect and disconnect from a computer, like his whole hand fell asleep for an instant, the skin prickling like one big, irritating itch. But the sensation left within moments and Bitty made quick work of snapping his thumb back into place, covering the connector. He fiddled with the skin around the base, stretching it so that the seam was unnoticeable. When he was satisfied he wiggled his fingers, examining his hand critically to be sure that it looked no different than any other person’s left hand.

Bitty smiled.

It was going to be a good day, he decided. Grabbing his book bag, Bitty left his dorm with a skip in his step. He was joining the boys for team breakfast today for the first time. Once he’d made the decision to stay at Samwell, and struggled through forgiving the team for the unspeakable crimes they’d committed against his pecan pie ( _Lord, these boys know not what they do_ ) Bitty knew he was going to have to pour his heart and soul into the hockey team.

That meant bonding, and what better way to bond with a bunch of jock bros than by sharing breakfast with them before a morning practice?

The dining hall was huge, easily twice the size as the rink in Faber, and even though classes hadn’t officially started yet, and it was barely eight in the morning, the room was filled with people milling about at the start of their day. There were members of the other varsity athletic teams of course, most dressed in their jerseys and loudly shouting how pumped they were that the pre-season had started. There were certainly a large number of graduate students already looking bleary-eyed and on the verge of mental breakdowns as they grappled with the impossible concept of balancing work, school, and life. Presidents and other council members of Samwell’s many clubs were handing out flyers and setting up sign-up tables. Orientation groups were dotted at tables around the area only half listening to their student guides as they explained important facts of Samwell’s history. Faculty and other campus workers were darting in and out of the crowds as well, swishing past people without spilling a single drop of their coffee.

Bitty took a moment to take the whole thing in. He closed his eyes and smiled, relishing in the anonymity as not a single person in the room gave him a second glance. They were too absorbed in their own lives to give much notice to a short blonde haired young man with a goofy grin on his face. It made Bitty feel like he truly had made it to the place he belonged.

He’d spent most of his life isolated from people, was told that it was dangerous to get close to others, that he’d be spotted for what he was instantly and hated for it, because people always hated what they didn’t understand. But no one at Samwell was interested in Bitty. They couldn’t see that he was different from them, didn’t even pay enough attention or even notice, and what’s more, they couldn’t care less.

Standing still in the middle of a crowd of hundreds and going unnoticed was the liberation Bitty had been seeking since he took his first step out of Madison. Here, just another face in the crowd, Bitty was free.

“HEEEYYYYY, BITTY!”

Bitty was brutally shook out of his meditation by Shitty clapping him hard on the back. This was obviously the mustachioed man’s favourite form of greeting, and Bitty was sure he was going to have a permanent bruise from where Shitty was always striking him.

“You finally showed up for team breakfast, ya lil fucker!”

“Good morning,” Bitty answered. “I’ll just grab myself something and join you and the boys.”

“Sounds good!”

Bitty had a bit of a hard time picking out something to eat. He wasn’t much of a breakfast eater to start with, and he had been nibbling on guilt pie earlier, so he settled for a hot cinnamon roll with extra icing and plain yogurt before seeking out the hockey team.

Even in a hall filled with hundreds of people, the Samwell Men’s Hockey team was easy to spot. Bitty didn’t even have to tweak his acoustic nerve to block out the excess noise and focus on the voices of his teammates (samples of their speech patterns were already imbedded to Bitty’s memory). All Bitty had to do was look for the tallest guy in the room. Even sitting down, Holster was easily head and shoulders above everyone else on campus. It helped that his voice was so distinctive (a booming baritone that could rattle dust from the rafters) and he was in the middle of loudly explaining the finer sexual implications of emojis to Ransom.

“Morning, y’all,” Bitty greeted as he took a seat. The rest of the team parroted the greeting back, some even throwing an exaggerated southern twang to their accents. Bitty took the teasing in good-natured stride.

“Nice of you to finally join us. What, no pie?” Ollie said around a mouthful of toast.

“Umm –”

“It’s really great you’re here, Bitty,” Johnson interrupted. He was sitting opposite Bitty and working diligently at peeling a boiled egg.

“Thank you,” Bitty said, opening his yogurt and digging in.

“No, man, I know you don’t get it, but it’s actually really great that you’re here. Now, the story can really get going. I mean, I guess this being the second chapter means that the story’s already started.”

“Oh?” Bitty said, for lack of anything better to say.

“And this is a really intriguing AU. I mean, the author’s no emmagrant01 or Ngozi Ukazu, but this story has enough interesting bits that it should keep people coming back for more. And it’s rated ‘E’ and nothing but Shitty’s flaccid dick has made an appearance so far, so the people reading are gonna be curious for when the sexy times will begin.”

“What about my dick?” Shitty yelled from the other side of the table.

“It’s lovely!” Johnson shouted back casually, still taking little bits of shell off his egg. “Anyway, I better go.”

“Aren’t you gonna finish your food?” Bitty asked, not really wanting Johnson to stay but also not wanting to seem rude.

“Naw. Gotta get this plot moving!” Johnson replied, slapping his now empty chair before winking at Bitty and walking away.

“I really don’t get that guy,” Ollie confessed.

“You’re not alone,” Bitty assured, finishing his yogurt and moving on to the cinnamon roll. He smiled as he appraised the doughy pastry, licking his lips in anticipation of the sweetness that would touch his tongue. Before he could take his first bite, Bitty heard a chair scraping across the floor. He looked up and saw Jack Zimmermann taking the seat across from him; the one Johnson had vacated so suddenly.

Jack was scowling, which Bitty had learned was Jack’s default expression. He always looked unhappy, which was a shame since the man had an extraordinary face, one that Bitty was sure would be blindingly gorgeous if he cracked even a shadow of a grin. Or laughed. Bitty knew the world would be ending if he ever heard Jack Zimmermann laugh. It made him wonder if Jack was just as disappointed that he wasn’t an actual hockey robot as Bitty was.

Bitty shook the thought out of his head. He was over that, now. And even if Jack wasn’t the hockey robot Bitty hoped he’d be, that didn’t mean the two of them couldn’t be friends. Squaring his shoulders, Bitty put on his best smile and opened his mouth to say good morning.

“Bittle, you need to eat more protein,” Jack said, raising his eyes from his plate of scrambled eggs and peanut butter toast to pin Bitty with a hard, icy blue glare.

Bitty’s brown eyes widened at the criticism a second before he narrowed his brows to pin Jack with his own intimidating glower (which, at best, could be described as a human version of Grumpy Cat – more adorable than threatening). This boy _did not_ just… _this boy_!

Neither Jack nor Bitty gave in. They stared each other down for what could have been the entirety of breakfast. They hadn’t even noticed that Holster and Ransom had stopped talking emojis and were now watching the staring contest with rapt attention, whispering bets on who they thought would crack first. Bitty kept his eyes on Jack, letting some of his resentment of Jack not being the promised hockey robot spill out in that long, unbroken stare. Damn his pretty face, and double damn his genuine hockey skill, which had led to the robot moniker in the first place! Damn Jack to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks for getting Bitty’s hopes up that he had found the one person who would understand him.

Jack needed to learn he couldn’t toy with the hopes of Eric Bittle.

Defiantly, and without blinking, Bitty took the warm cinnamon roll into his hands. He cradled it gently, smelled it, and licked his lips slowly before he took a great big bite out of it. Icing smeared his upper lip, and cinnamon settled in the corners of his mouth. Bitty chewed slowly, letting the pastry really coat all of the inside of his mouth. He ate with indulgent insubordination, mocking his team captain with every sweet smacking bite until he swallowed.

Jack watched the whole thing, eyes never wavering from Bitty’s face, focusing on that little pink mouth as a the bottom lip swept up to clean the upper one of icing, and a red tongue poked at the edges to capture the traces of cinnamon left behind. Jack’s fingers fisted into his palms without his realizing as he watched Bitty smirk and raise his left thumb to his lips, slipping it inside and sucking the icing off the digit with a wet smack.

When Jack finally broke and turned his gaze down to his plate of eggs, the rest of the team erupted with laughter, Shitty slapping Bitty on the back in congratulations while Ransom pestered Holster mercilessly as he was handed twenty dollars by the tall blond man. Bitty relished the praise, attributing the blush raising high on his cheeks to the compliments from his teammates and the rush of having won against Jack Zimmermann.

He never noticed that Jack had to adjust himself in his chair several times, or that his captain didn’t take a single bite of his breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone should read [ emmagrant01 ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01) . Wonderful stories, every single one of them.
> 
> And of course there's [ Ngozi Ukazu ](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com/) without whom we wouldn't even have the 'swasomeness that is [ Check Please! ](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/tagged/omgcheckplease/chrono).
> 
> A BIG thank you to everyone who has commented, bookmarked, read, and kudosed this story. I'm glad you're liking it so much after just the one chapter. I hope you enjoyed the second and all the rest that will follow.
> 
> Also, shout out to my fellow Canadians, HAPPY CANADA DAY! I dedicate this chapter to [ Jack Zimmermann and Justin Oluransi .](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/57706744022)


	3. Hockey Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 3, 2010: Eric Bittle learned what hockey was. Three years later at Faber, he learned some more.

**November 03 rd, 2010 | Madison Institute of Technology | Atlanta, GA**

“What is that?”

Doctor Richard Coach smirked at Eric’s confused expression, his head tilting as he stared curiously at the laptop. He looked like his wife’s cocker spaniel when he did that, all big brown eyes and sweet face that didn’t know what to make of the new information he was processing.

“It’s hockey,” the scientist said fondly, maneuvering his tray of instruments around the chair that Eric was strapped to. “The restraints aren’t too uncomfortable?”

Eric shrugged, far too absorbed in studying the Penguins vs. Stars game to commit to an answer. Dr. Coach checked the straps himself, one at Eric’s bellybutton and another high on his chest, above his heart. He gave each of them a tug, satisfied that they were tight enough to restrict Eric and keep him from fidgeting, but not so tight that he found it suffocating. Then there were the restraints on Eric’s left arm (his bicep and forearm) keeping it immobile for the work that needed to be done.

“What’s hockey?” Eric wondered, his eyes alight with intrigue as he watched the players swish like cheetahs on the ice, quick and low and on the hunt.

“It’s a game,” Dr. Coach explained.

“How do you play?”

“Two teams skate on the rink and try to get the puck – that little black circle – into the opposing team’s net by hitting it with those sticks they’re holding. There’s six players that go out on the ice at one time from each team. The one protecting the net is called the goalie, and the other five are the centre, left, and right wing, and then a pair of defensemen.”

“Seems exciting,” Eric said, turning to Dr. Coach and smiling.

“It is,” the scientist insisted, filling a syringe with the epidural he used whenever he worked on Eric’s hand. “Just wait until you see a check, then things get very exciting.”

“What’s a check?”

“Watch and you’ll find out.”

“Why did you bring this?” Eric wondered, tilting his head towards the laptop, grimacing a bit when Dr. Coach jabbed him with the needle, the numbing agent working quickly as his whole left arm soon felt as if it wasn’t even really attached to his body.

“You liked watching the Olympic figure skating competitions, remember? I thought you might like watching hockey, too. I know…well, I know you don’t like these operations,” the older man said, disposing the needle.

“No, but I understand why we have to do them,” Eric replied, looking down at his chest to the modified pacemaker that was the only thing keeping his heart beating. It was an ugly, bulky machine that restricted Eric from doing anything too arduous. It was attached to the outside of his body and hung off his chest like some sort of horrid leech; an anchor that kept him stuck. The battery needed to be changed about every forty-eight hours, depending on how much energy Eric expended, so he was forced to remain in the laboratory that was equal parts his home and his prison.

If he could just be rid of the wretched apparatus, Eric would be able to leave Madison and see some of the city that Dr. Coach promised existed outside of this windowless room. It was why, although he truly did dread every time Dr. Coach strapped him to the operating chair, Eric was resigned to the whole procedure. He wanted to get out of his cell and if he had to undergo hundreds of operations (and he’d already been through thirty-two so far) it would be worth it to be able to walk out of Madison seemingly no different than anyone else in the laboratory.

Dr. Coach had a plan, of course.  The idea was to give Eric an internal battery, one that would last twenty-eight hours no matter how much energy he used up. The battery would be attached directly to his heart, keeping it beating and healthy and strong, and all Eric would have to do was remember to recharge it every night while he was sleeping. To do that, however, he needed an output port, hence the operations on his left hand.

Eric didn’t mind the idea that his left hand would be completely robotic. It was a small sacrifice to make in order to achieve his greater ambitions. Besides, it meant he had something in common with Luke Skywalker, which was pretty neat.

No, what Eric really struggled with was the pain.

Dr. Coach was a brilliant scientist (the fact that Eric even existed was proof of that) and in his plans for Eric he had decided to use the median nerve as the conduit by which an electric charge would travel from hand to heart. It was a genius solution to avoid having to graft an actual cable along Eric’s nerves. But the compromise to a less invasive procedure was having to endure stinging stabs of liquid white pain as Dr. Coach connected the mechanical components of the hand directly to Eric’s nerve ending.

Keeping Eric awake and strapped to the operating chair was necessary to the success of the installation. The epidural helped with some of the pain, but when it came to playing with nerves no amount of numbing could quell that kind of agony.

‘ _It’s worth it_ ,’ Eric thought as he watched Dr. Coach play with his mechanical fingers, checking the joints and testing their dexterity before continuing with his work on the thumb.

“Watch the hockey game, Eric,” Dr. Coach said kindly, picking up his tools.

Still confused, Eric did as he was told, turning back to the game just in time to see the Dallas Stars score the first goal. And just like that, Eric was hooked. Like a sailor heeding the siren’s call, Eric was lured in by the magnificent sport with no hope of escape. He watched the game with rapt attention, following the puck and players as they flew across the ice, brutal and beautiful. Eric asked question after question as the game went on, pestering Dr. Coach to explain the basic rules, the teams, the different players, the unfamiliar words (Face-off? Hooking? _Zamboni_?!), everything that captured his notice. He wanted to know everything and since Dr. Richard Coach was the smartest man Eric knew (he held two doctorates and four honorary degrees and was esteemed as the world’s foremost authority on theoretical robotics) he trusted the man to tell him the truth about this fascinating sport called hockey.

Dr. Coach was skilled at multi-tasking and indulged Eric’s curiosity, answering his questions as best he could, even sneaking a few peeks at the game as he worked on the mechanical hand, joking that he hadn’t seen Eric so engrossed with anything since introducing him to MasterChef.

Eric chuckled at the jab and continued to watch the game. He studied the players like they were works of art, tracing the lines of their bodies (especially their butts!) and how they moved with graceful aggression across the ice. It was exhilarating when a goal was scored by either team and Eric caught himself shuddering with barbaric delight when Crosby and Niskanen exchanged hard blows on the ice.

When it was all over, the Dallas Stars had won and Eric was out of breath and sweaty. His hair was matted to his ears and his whole body tingled pleasantly. He felt like he wanted to take a nap and just bask in the afterglow of such an adrenaline rush, almost as if he’d had a very nice, very satisfying orgasm. His dick even twitched between his thighs at the thought, leaving Eric shifting his legs as he tried to get comfortable.

“Well, that’s it for today,” Dr. Coach said, tossing his instruments onto a tray for sanitizing. Eric whipped his head towards the scientist, surprised and confused. He looked down at his hand and saw that it was wrapped in a protective mitt.

“It’s over?” Eric asked dumbly as Dr. Coach undid the restraints.

“For today at least.”

“But…I didn’t feel anything,” Eric said. ‘ _I didn’t feel any pain_ ,’ he meant.

“You were a bit distracted,” Dr. Coach remarked with a smirk, turning the laptop off and stashing it in a cupboard. He was more than a little proud of himself that his tactic to keep Eric from focusing on the operation was incredibly successful. “Time for some rest.”

Eric slid out of the chair, his knees almost giving out on him, and that’s when he recognized that his body had indeed reacted to the trauma of having his nerves fiddled with. He was exhausted and could barely keep himself standing, let alone concentrate on keeping the hydraulic pumps in his knees from giving way. Dr. Coach helped Eric to his bed, a comfy cot set up in a semi-private corner of the laboratory that the scientist had outfitted into a bedroom that a teenage boy might like.

Eric grunted his thanks as Dr. Coach wiped his sweaty brow and tucked the blankets up to just under his pacemaker. He felt the man trace his cheek and pat his shoulder fondly before moving to leave.

“Hey, Coach,” Eric said softly. “Maybe next time you have to work on the hand you can do it when there’s another game on?”

Coach chuckled and agreed before turning off the light.

“Goodnight, son.”

_X_

**Three Years Later…**

“What are y’all doing?”

“Bitty!” Holster exclaimed, snatching his phone from Ransom and skating over to the confused blond boy. Bitty did stiffen a bit as Holster got close, seemingly not planning to stop until he was practically on top of the small right wing. How the giant blond man could still have so much energy after a hard practice was beyond Bitty. “You know how to work the video on these, right?”

“Does Georgia know how to grow pecan trees?” Bitty said with a chuckle. He was met with a blank expression (Holster even threw a pleading look over his shoulder to Ransom who just shrugged helplessly). “Just give it,” he grumbled as he took the phone.  

“ ‘Swawesome! Rans! Bitty’s gonna be our cameraman.”

“Sweet! Thanks, brah,” Ransom said, skating over to the pair.  

“So, what do y’all need a cameraman for?” Bitty asked as he easily got the phone to the correct settings and started playing with the focus and filters.

“Here!” Holster said, snatching the phone back (he ignored Bitty’s exasperated sigh) and pulling up YouTube. He and Ransom squished themselves on either side of Bitty, trapping the poor boy in a D-men sandwich.

“Prepare to have your mind fucking blown,” Ransom whispered dramatically as Holster tapped on a video.

Curious, Bitty watched as the screen lit up with a title card that said ‘ _Hockey Shit with Ransom & Holster_’ before fading into a short, and very funny, video featuring Ransom and Holster in the Faber locker room. They welcomed viewers to their instructional video series on all things hockey, setting out to teach the poor ignorant masses all about the culture of the sport, starting with some basic definitions. This video was focused on, of course, the D-man. When the short tutorial was over, Bitty was smiling.

“That was…‘swawesome!” he exclaimed, tasting the word on his lips for the first time. “Got anymore?”

“Do we have anymore?” Holster repeated haughtily as he gave Bitty a light noogie.

“Only one more,” Ransom explained and tapped on the video. The defensemen exchanged sour faces over Bitty’s head while he watched their three minute history on the puck and why it was called a biscuit, the whole think ending with the pair inexplicably crashing headfirst into the net.

“Fellas, this is great! And where’d y’all get that name?”

“It came to us in a dream,” Ransom replied, looking off into the distance. Holster appropriated the same far-away gaze. Bitty rolled his eyes.

“I wish I could do something like this, but I’m not that imaginative,” he sighed, knowing he was too that imaginative. If he had his own Youtube channel, Bitty was certain he’d be a moderate success, maybe even become a little internet famous. But he was trying to be discreet in his new life and Samwell and nothing screamed the total opposite of discreet like social media.

“We could show you, Bits,” Ransom offered.

“Chyeah! It’s hella easy,” Holster added.

“No thanks,” Bitty answered quickly, flustered. “I’d have to think about what I’d want to talk about, and learn how to edit, and come up with a title. Lord, I’m so plain Jane I’d probably have a vlog called something like ‘ _Easy as Pie_ ’ cuz all I’d talk about is baking. Or maybe ‘ _Check Please!_ ’, you know, to combine eating and hockey somehow.”

“That’s so meta! Is the author even trying?!” Johnson yelled as he skated a circle around the three young men before vanishing off the ice as quickly as he appeared.

“Fucking goalies,” Holster said under his breath while Ransom and Bitty chose to completely ignore the brief encounter.

“Bros! Can we get a fucking move on?! My balls are blue!” Shitty yelled from the opposite end of the rink, breaking the trio out of their reveries.

“Give us a fucking minute, Shits! We’re getting Bitty set up! And your blue balls have nothing to do with us!” Holster hollered back, earning a fist bump from Ransom before the pair got down to business. They quickly explained to Bitty what they wanted him to do, where they wanted him to point the camera and when, and that he was free to call cut if anything looked wrong in the frame.

“What’s the subject this time?” Bitty wondered as they all moved into position.

“Flow,” Ransom said.

“Flow?” Bitty echoed.

“Yeah, bro. You know, flow.”

Bitty just shook his head and smiled nervously. He loved hockey. He _knew_ hockey. He knew players and teams and rules and the game. But slang? Outside of normal play and equipment terms, hockey language hadn’t come up in his research. It wasn’t important to the overall outcome of a game, and it certainly never made an impact, one way or another, on how he connected to the sport. But from the way Ransom and Holster were looking at him as if he were a dumb, pitiful thing, there was definitely a gaping black hole in Bitty’s hockey knowledge that was clearly preventing him from truly experiencing a full 100% of the game. That would need to be rectified, and quickly.

“You poor, uneducated frog,” Holster sighed, much in the same way Bitty would huff ‘ _Bless you heart_ ’ when he felt a person was being particularly witless. “Don’t worry, Bits, we got your back. Just keep the camera on us and we’ll teach you everything you need to know about flow. Hell, we’ll teach you every bit of hockey shit we know. How’s that sound?”

Bitty smiled, that same rushing excitement he’d felt crash over him when he’d watched his first hockey game returning. It made a flush rise to his cheeks and his skin tingle. He really did love hockey. Honestly, couldn’t get enough of it.

He raised the phone into position.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, and hit record.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment or a kudos, bookmark or subscription to this story so far. I very much appreciate that you took the time to keep The Hockey Robot on your radar.
> 
> Next chapter: The Hockey Prince...hmm, maybe we'll finally find out what Jack thinks of his southern teammate.


	4. The Hockey Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Bitty executes his ninth spin-o-rama of the practice, Jack can't take it anymore.

‘ _That little shit_ ,’ Jack thought, watching as Bitty avoided a check with yet another spin-o-rama.

“That’s his sixth one,” Coach Murray said.

“Seventh,” Coach Hall corrected, shaking his head as he took notes.

“Where did you get this guy?” Jack asked, unable to keep the sharp edge of frustration from his tone.

They were three weeks into pre-season, three weeks closer to hockey season, and the team needed to be ready. The other boys were doing well: Shitty’s stick handling had definitely improved since last year; the two other Frogs, Wicks and O’Meara, had a good feel for the ice and Wicks had a wicked backhand that had gotten past Johnson more than once (and speaking of Johnson…well, he hadn’t gotten weirder since their last season); Ransom and Holster were even more in sync than Jack had thought possible, proving to be an amazing pair of D-men (at least, when they weren’t being fools which, as long as it wasn’t during practice, Jack could live with).

And then there was Bittle.

From that first skate, something about Eric Bittle had made Jack bristle. The team captain couldn’t put a name to what it was that Bittle made him feel. Frustrated was close. So was uncomfortable. As he watched Bittle complete his _eighth_ spin-o-rama of the practice, anger was another emotion boiling near the surface.

“Coach, seriously, how did this guy get recruited?” he asked.

Coach Hall coughed uncomfortably and avoided Jack’s gaze. “…he sent in a good tape.”

“That was mostly ice dancing that he did with gloves and a stick,” Coach Murray added a bit sheepishly. “But he was so fast!”

Jack couldn’t help rolling his eyes. He supposed that was what bothered him the most about Bittle: the potential. Potential that seemed so wasted on the too sweet Southern boy who looked better suited to bake sales than college hockey. Bittle was good on the ice, the fastest on the team (literally skated circles around the rest of them during drills), and he had soft hands, could handle a stick and control the puck better than the other Frogs, and he really did know how to use his height to his advantage when against players taller and bulker.

And that was just Bittle’s practical skill.

His actual hockey knowledge was impressive. Like, obsessive fan impressive. Jack clearly remembered the day he’d come out of the showers to find the team encircling a still damp Bittle who stood tall and proud on one of the benches, only a towel keeping him decent, and reciting every team and captain that had won the Stanley cup in the last fifty years. Sequentially. Backwards. While balancing on one foot.

Jack had stood there with the rest of the boys, speechless and amazed as Bittle showed off, ears attuned to the eighteen year old’s charming Georgian drawl, eyes glued to his glistening back, taking note of the muscles hidden in that small frame, fascinated as the towel loosened some and hung low on Bittle’s hips, the swell of pink buttocks peeking titillatingly against the white terrycloth. Jack remembered his throat going dry just as Bittle entered the 1980s and had cast a look over his shoulder and caught Jack’s eye. He’d smiled at the silent captain, face open and bright and just a little bit coy as his chin rested against his shoulder. Jack had responded to that welcoming smile by rushing out of the locker room and taking another shower that had nothing to do with the way his heart was beating like a hummingbird trapped in his ribcage...or the hard-on he’d suddenly sprung.

Shaking his head at the memory, and deciding that the flush on his face was from his irritation at being unable to control everything about his life (and body), Jack returned his focus to the team. He watched the others, purposely avoiding looking for #15 until he had to and actually growled when he saw Bittle execute his ninth spin-o-rama. That was the last straw. Jack put on his helmet and went out on the ice.

He fell in line easily with the rest of the boys, moving on the ice without having to think about it. That’s what Jack loved about skating, about hockey. It made him feel free, just him and the ice and his team and the puck and the net.

“Bittle! Head’s up!” Jack yelled when he spotted Holster bulldozing for the small player. Bittle turned towards the charging defenseman and, rather than attempt what would be his tenth spin-o-rama, Bittle went full dead weight collapsed. “Or get into the fetal position on centre ice,” Jack said incredulously as he looked at the quivering mess that was his #15. He had fallen down so suddenly, and with such force, that Jack wondered that the ice hadn’t cracked. “That’s also an option.”

“I’m thinking we can make a play out of this,” Holster said thoughtfully, having stopped just inches from where Bittle had dropped.

“I’m just fine,” Bittle tried to insist, although it was apparent that he wasn’t getting up any time soon.

“Hey, Bits, want us to slide you to the bench?” Shitty asked, joining the rest of the team as they circled around Bittle.

“No, no. Don’t trouble yourselves. I’m fine, y’all. I just…just need a moment,” Bittle insisted, working through his tremors to raise himself to his knees.

“Crisse,” Jack cursed, hooking an arm under Bittle’s and lifting. He was taken aback by just how heavy Bittle was, grunting as he forced the kid to his feet.

“Thanks, Jack –”

“This isn’t a joke, Bittle!” Jack suddenly yelled, startling everyone, even the captain himself. But once the words were out of his mouth, Jack couldn’t stop. “I don’t know what your problem with checking is and I don’t really care! Spin-o-ramas! Collapsing! This game – Bittle, this is a _contact_ sport, so you better find a way to check your issues in the locker room before setting one blade on the ice. Either get with the program, or quit!”

When he finished, the rink was heavily silent, the rest of the team watching the pair with an unsure stillness that further rattled Jack’s ire. He grit his teeth and blocked everyone else out, hardening his heart to the way Bittle’s face crumbled under the public chewing out. Jack told himself he didn’t feel a bit of remorse as the boy in front of him fought tears and a humiliated flush. He was tough on Bittle, true, but that’s what came with the captaincy. He had to be tough on the boys if he wanted to get the very best out of them, the Frogs especially. And Bittle could be a really, really good hockey player if he only learned how to deal with a check.

“Bittle, son,” Coach Murray said, skating alongside him, breaking the moment, but not the tension. “Get on the bench, son. Take five.”

“Sure, Coach,” he replied, his voice small but ringing loud in Jack’s ears. With Murray’s hand on his shoulder, Bittle glided away. Jack caught Bittle’s eye before he stepped off the ice. The small Southern man looked over his shoulder and pinned the French Canadian captain with large brown eyes swirling with hurt and confusion and disappointment, his fair brows narrowed and petite mouth curving down in a fierce pout.

And even though it was the complete opposite of that sweet smile he had flashed at Jack in the locker room all those days ago, Jack still felt his heart beat frantically in his chest and his dick throb with interest from one look.

Tightening his hold on his stick, Jack started shouting at the boys to get in position for a new play he wanted to try, ignoring Shitty, Ransom, and Holster ( _were they talking about fainting goats? Really?!_ ) and the uncomfortable churning in his gut that was only agitated by his knowing that Bittle was looking anywhere but at Jack for the rest of practice.

_X_

Bitty knew he was unlacing his skates with unnecessary fervor, but he couldn’t think of a more productive way of letting out his anger other than singing ‘ _Why Don’t You Love Me’_ – not that he wanted Jack to _love_ him, it just wouldn’t kill that boy to be _not_ a jerk _all_ the time – but he didn’t really feel like belting Beyoncé at the top of his lungs in the middle of the locker room (and damn that Jack Zimmermann for making Bitty deny his Queen).

Jack had made him feel like an idiot at practice, screaming at him in front of the rest of the boys, saying he had a checking problem. Bitty had a very good reason for not wanting to get checked and he’d figured that as long as he was still playing well and holding the puck what should it matter that he used spin-o-ramas to avoid contact? The crumpling to the ice to avoid Holster smacking into him had maybe been a poor judgement call, but Bitty couldn’t have executed a spin-o-rama because Jack was too close to his back so he’d panicked and did the only thing he could think of to stop Holster from slamming into him.

If Jack knew what would happen if another player did check Bitty, he wouldn’t have unleashed all hell on his head. The jerk.  

“Yo, Bitty, bro. Jack just gets real bitchy near the end of every pre-season,” Ransom offered condolingly, noticing his teammate’s damper attitude.

“Yeah, Bits. He’ll go back to his regular scheduled levels of bitchy after the first game,” Holster added as he changed.

“Jack hates me, pre-season bitchiness or not,” Bitty grumbled.

“That’s like, not even physically possible,” Holster insisted. “No one could ever hate you. Your pies are too ‘swawesome.”

“Jack hasn’t eaten any of my pies,” Bitty announced bitterly, thinking back on the dozen pies he had made for the team over the last three weeks and recalling that crushing disappointment when he noticed that his captain hadn’t even taken a nibble.

“Brah!” Holster exclaimed while Ransom patted Bitty on the shoulder and said ‘that’s rough’.

“Cut Jack some slack,” Shitty said kindly. “I mean, when a bro’s dad is Bad Bob a bro’s gonna turn into a fucking hockey Nazi every once in a while.”

“No excuse,” Bitty insisted, recalling the palaces he could fill with the articles he had read on Bad Bob Zimmermann.

‘ _One of the NHL’s legends. Six Stanley cups. 877 career goals. Shooting Percentage: 9.8%. Record holder for most assists (118) in the 77-78 season. Centre. #1. Known for his unique air guitar celly..._ ’

…and the father of Jack Laurent Zimmermann, the boy otherwise known as the Hockey Robot.

If not for his research on Jack, Bitty never would have heard of Bad Bob. But so many articles, particularly the ones from Jack’s time in the QMJHL, made reference to the ‘Zimmermann Legacy’ that Bitty had been compelled to learn at least the highlights of the man who had created (although at the time Bitty had thought ‘created’ meant more like ‘assembled’, whoops!) Jack.

Even knowing that Bad Bob was Jack’s father in the biological sense didn’t change his feelings about his captain, and he didn’t know why Shitty thought it should. He said just as much as he pulled his sweater on.

“Come on, Bits, be a bit sympathetic,” Shitty suggested. “Having to skate in your dad’s NHL shadow all your life has gotta put some pressure on a bro.”

“Jack doesn’t feel pressure!” Bitty insisted hotly. “He lives and breathes hockey, nothing else. I even bet one day Jack will die because of hockey.”

He chuckled a bit at his lame quip, only noticing that the locker room had gone eerily quiet around him. The silence hung over him in an almost suffocating way, much like it had back on the ice when Jack had yelled at him. Looking up from tying his shoes, Bitty noticed the rest of the team looking at him sharply, some with shocked expressions, others surprised, some concerned, and then there was Shitty who looked fucking pissed.

“That’s not fucking funny, Bitty,” he said, livid puffs of air ruffling his mustache

 “What?” Bitty asked, unsure of what he had said that seemed to offend his teammates so. “What did I—”

“He doesn’t know, Shits. No fucking way,” Ransom said.

“Know what?” Bitty asked.

“See!” Holster jumped in. “Bitty wouldn’t ever be that much of an asshole – although what he said was spectacularly assholery.”

“No, I…what did I…um…Geez! Could y’all just stop looking at me like that!” he exclaimed, fighting the nausea that was weaving up his throat, a cold sweat already beading at his brow. He swallowed thickly, the sensation of being outnumbered and helpless brought to the surface by emotions he’d never been able to explain, but that had plagued him for as long as he could remember. There was a definite impulse to run away, but from what Bitty wasn’t sure. He just knew that while the whole of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team (sans Jack – debrief with the Coaches) stared him down he felt very, very, very little.

“You really don’t know?” Shitty checked.

“No. I don’t even know what I said that upset y’all so much. I’m sorry. Please, tell me.”

Shitty sighed, finally relaxing, but looking much more exhausted than he had a few minutes ago.

“S’not really our story to tell,” he said carefully.

“He can find everything online, anyway,” Holster added.

“Yeah, but he can get the real story from us,” Ransom reasoned.

“None doing. It’s against the bro code to go telling another bro’s business,” Shitty decided, standing up to pat Bitty on the crown of his head. “Bits, I’m not gonna go blabbing Jack’s history, but Holtz is right. It’s all online. Go home and google ‘Jack Zimmermann July 2009’. You’ll know what we mean as soon as you see it.”

“Ok,” Bitty said, unsure of what all the vagueness and secrecy was for, but willing to go along with it if he could correct whatever offense he’d committed. He already knew from quickly scanning the files in his memory that Jack’s hockey career had gone on hiatus in July of 2009 and didn’t resume until he’d enrolled in Samwell in 2011. He’d never researched the gap, not really interested in what the Hockey Robot had gotten up to when he wasn’t playing hockey. Now, Bitty was very curious. He also had to go and charge his battery anyway, so he’d have something to do while he was stuck hiding in his room.

“Cool,” Shitty said. “And when you’re done your research, come join us at the Pub.”

“Yeah, trivia night. We’re gonna crush the lax team like a beer can,” Ransom bragged.

Bitty said he’d try and join up with the boys, not wanting to make any kind of commitment just in case. He made his way to his dorm quickly and checked that his dorm mates would be in their computer labs for hours still so he was safe to charge for a while. Sitting at his desk, Bitty prepared. Pulling back a bit of skin from his thumb and then bending the digit open to expose his charging port, Bitty plugged himself in with a USB Standard B cable that was connected to a wall charger. Once his battery was getting the electric current it needed, he got his laptop out and set to his search.

The first several hits when he googled ‘Jack Zimmermann July 2009’ were bright in-your-face headlines about Jack missing the NHL draft that year due to a personal tragedy. Snippets of speculation about illness and a mental breakdown were plentiful and pretty brutal. Then there were the tabloid spreads with grainy pixilated photographs of an ambulance at a large stone house with paramedics carrying someone out on a gurney, a sensational story accompanying the poor quality pictures stating that Jack had tried to kill himself.

Startled and confused by words like ‘addict’, ‘drugs’, and ‘suicide’, Bitty delved further into the story, looking past the gossip and lies until he finally found a few articles that he deemed to have legitimate claims to what actually had happened, including a statement made by Jack’s parents shortly after the incident.

What he learned broke his heart.

A story of a young man plagued with anxiety squeezed at Bitty’s soul. He read about Jack’s potential, his skill, his drive, and how so much of his young life was tainted with nerves, and pressure, and apprehension, and fear. He read about the Benzodiazepine, how Jack had been found unconscious with an empty prescription bottle of the pills in his bathroom just one day before the draft announcement, how he’d barely been breathing and reportedly flat lined on the way to the hospital, how he’d had to have his stomach pumped and his body suffer through withdrawals, and was left to recover in a rehab centre for six months.

And Bitty read between the lines of the story, too.

He read about a boy that was so scared of letting everyone down that he tried to be the best at everything. He read about a boy who thought he might find release from all the pressure, just for a moment, if he took one more pill. He read about a boy who only wanted to make his father proud. He read about a boy who loved the game so much that it _had_ nearly killed him.

And he thought, perhaps, he read about a boy whose only real wish on this earth was to be free.

Bitty’s knew that dream, and now, he felt like he knew Jack just a bit better than before.

He also knew that he, Eric Richard Bittle, was a complete asshole.

Closing his laptop, Bitty took a long time to process what he had read, sorting through the data and reflecting on how his perception of Jack The Hockey Robot had completely shifted. When he’d first heard about Jack Zimmermann, Bitty had only been interested in two things: the hockey part and the robot part. He’d done his research, obviously, had spent days reading everything there was to read on Jack and his hockey career and his family legacy. He’d never bothered to look into what Jack did when he wasn’t on the ice, and so information on the years between 2008 and 2010 hadn’t interested him unless they had to do with hockey. He hadn’t cared what Jack was like outside of the game. He was such an asshole!

Like, a real fucking douche asshole no better than a fucking douche asshole lax bro. _That’s_ how much of an asshole he was. That’s why the rest of the fellas had looked at him with such surprise and anger.

Bitty hated that he hadn’t bothered to care about Jack beyond his hockey robot reputation. He wasn’t that sort of person in the first place. Bitty genuinely liked people, he cared about them and their problems and their happiness. He had just been so blinded, first by his fascination with Jack’s repute then by his disappointment in Jack’s regular human status that he didn’t let himself know more about his captain.

But now he did know…and he wanted to know more.

He wanted to know how Jack was now, how he coped with the anxiety that surely still had to be there, how he relaxed, how he felt about everything, not just hockey...he wanted to know if Jack finally felt free.

What he had said in the locker room, even in ignorance, was petty and cruel. Bitty was surprised that Shitty and the others hadn’t given him more of a verbal lashing. He certainly felt he deserved it. He also, most certainly, owed the boys an apology (and lots of pie).

Feeling that his battery was at 82%, Bitty was comfortable unplugging himself and leaving for the Pub. He found the team easily enough in the crowded campus bar (once again, sans Jack – he didn’t care much for the Pub) and was a bit nervous when they all fell silent as he approached the table.

“I’m a jackass,” he said solemnly, “and I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence before Holster stood up and put Bitty in headlock so he could give him a solid noogie.

“Good news, Bits. Jackasses buy the next round,” he said, releasing Bitty and holding out his hand for some cash.

“They also bring pie to the next three practices,” Ransom added.

Bitty chuckled, relieved that he was forgiven so easily, and handed Holster some money. He was welcomed to sit next to Shitty and given a quick breakdown of where their team currently stood in the trivia night rankings. Bitty listened, so glad that he was back in the fold and rather amazed that this group of hockey bros had been eager to welcome him.

“I really am sorry,” Bitty said to Shitty. “I know Jack’s your best friend, and I didn’t know, but that’s no excuse. I should have tried to be understanding instead of getting mad.”

“You should have,” Shitty agreed, “but I’ve known Jack a while now and I know how he gets. It’s just people usually already know his tragic backstory before ever laying eyes on him.”

“It must be so hard for him. I mean…anxiety, panic…it doesn’t just go away. He still gets stressed, obviously. How does he cope without…you know? I mean, how does he stop himself from…um…” Bitty didn’t dare say relapse. The thought of it was heartbreaking.

“I think of it like a fairy tale,” Shitty confessed, leaning close. “You know, like Jack is this Hockey Prince and he fights all kinds of mythical beasts, but then he came across one he just couldn’t beat.”

“So Jack acts like he does –” Bitty began.

“– because once he was plagued by dragons,” Shitty finished, smiling proudly that Bitty got the metaphor. “And sometimes, he still is, because dragons don’t just go away. He still fights them when he has to. So, it’s up to us, you know, to make sure Jack doesn’t fight them alone. We make sure he doesn’t live in his head too much; keep those dragons at bay. We’re his bros, bro. You know?”

“I know,” Bitty answered with a small smile, thinking that Jack as a Hockey Prince made much more sense than him being a Hockey Robot. He also thought that Jack was very lucky to have all of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team (and that included him) watching his back like his very own knights of the round table.

“Fucking right!” Shitty exclaimed, patting Bitty several times on his back. “And we’re your bro, too.”

“Thanks, Shitty,” Bitty said softly, feeling very lucky himself that he had found such an amazing group of bros that he could call his own, ones that had his back too.

For the first time since coming to Samwell, Bitty felt like he wasn’t just hanging out with his teammates. He was hanging out with his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a broken record, but I can't seem to thank everybody enough for their kudos and comments and just overall interest in this story. Thank you so much!!
> 
> And for those who are wondering, yes, that is a whole lot of UST that Jack is feeling right now, bless his stubborn French Canadian heart. As for Bitty, well, he's definitely feeling something for Jack, although he can't put a name to it just yet.
> 
> With respect to Jack's intense chewing out of Bitty and Shitty's Hockey Prince fairy tale metaphor, I am giving 110% of the credit to David B. Whitmore who has written both lyrics and music for a non-existent Check Please! musical. The songs and music are great and catchy and everyone who is a Check Please! fan needs to [ check it out now!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F3z3SA1Pa4&list=PLBw2mZQycVkZxKJwtjLOmwttZNQVvGabW&index=1) 'The Hockey Prince' and 'This Game is Not a Game' are my favourite songs from this collection and, no surprise, are what I drew inspiration from while writing parts of this chapter.
> 
> Next chapter: The Haus...Bitty's first kegster.


	5. The Haus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boy meets oven. Oven meets boy. It's love a first sight.

Waking up from the drowning depths of unconsciousness had never been such a fuzzy, heavy, throbbing ordeal before now. With a headache that beat within his skull like a drum, Bitty managed to crack one eye open, the room he was in a blurry mess but most definitely his own dorm.

Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, Bitty actually whined, convinced this was the worst pain he’d ever experienced in his life (including his own assembly!) as his whole body burned and ached with the blotchily recalled experience of last night. There had been the boys, and contracts, and pie, and beer (so much beer) and music, and Shitty and…

...how he managed to roll himself up into a sitting position Bitty wasn’t certain, he only knew that yesterday had been full of poor life choices. Besides his headache, Bitty’s body was suffering under the painful consequences of his evening’s escapades (although some of that agony could be the result of passing out on a hard-as-a-rock bed and paper thin mattress). His spine protested all movement and his thighs actually throbbed as if he’d run a thousand suicide sprints, not to mention the blisters he could feel on his feet. This anatomical investigation led Bitty to belatedly realizing that he was completely naked and unplugged and he couldn’t drum up one ounce of concern for either situation. A quick look around the room assured Bitty that his roommates were out so he wouldn’t risk scandalizing them with his nudity, and an internal scan of his battery revealed that he had 21.4% power left, which wasn’t too low, although he certainly did need a recharge.

Of course, his charge cord was on the other side of the room by his desk and Bitty’s getting out of bed was simply not going to happen. He was doomed to remain stuck in his horrible bed as his battery eventually drained of all power, shutting him down and leaving his small naked body to be found by the hockey team when he didn’t show up for practice. Shitty would make a beautiful eulogy while Holster would sing a moving cover of _I Was Here_ as Ransom cried and lamented that Bitty was too precious for this world while Johnson said something that didn’t make any sense.

Jack would blame Bitty’s lack of protein intake for his untimely demise before hustling everyone off to Faber for strategy.

Turning away from the sunlight Bitty spotted a pair of aviator sunglasses (definitely not his), a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of tepid water on his bedside table. Beside the three miraculous instruments, taped to his alarm clock, was a note written in Bitty’s own chicken scratch.

‘ _Dear Future Bitty,_  
_Here’s what you need to help with that wicked hangover. You’re welcome (and you should thank Shitty, too)_  
 _Love, Drunk Bitty_ ’

Moving faster than his body would have liked, Bitty took two capsules of aspirin, downed the water, and shoved the large aviator shades over his nose. He already felt better for having been so thoughtful of himself when surely his mind hadn’t been in any kind of state to be considerate. He was even amazed that he’d managed to spell everything in the note correctly.

Huffing loudly, Bitty concentrated, digging deep into his memory, searching for what catastrophe had led to his current state of fevered headachy nausea. He remembered he’d been recording his vlog when he’d gotten the message from Shitty through the SMH Group Text telling him be across campus by 3:00pm that day (it only gave him fifteen minutes) or be forced to be on jockstrap duty for the rest of the semester. Bitty had rushed as quickly as he could to the address that followed Shitty’s first text, making it there at 3:02 and the last Frog to join the huddle gathered in the front lawn of what Bitty had been certain was a condemned shack in the middle of Greek Row…

_X_

**20 Hours Ago**

“Gooooooooooood morning, Frogs!” Shitty bellowed like the drill sergeant of a ragtag group of new recruits. “You, the uninitiated of the Samwell Hockey Team have the distinct and unpanelled honour of entering, for the very first time, our humble abode: The Haus!”

Bitty and the other Frogs looked up at the three storey off-white structure that certainly looked like it could have been a beautiful fraternity house when it was brand new, but time, and twenty-five years’ worth of hockey teams living in her, had literally given the old girl grey hair (or was that just mold in the shingles?). Paint was peeling off the siding and there was a foot sized hole in the porch that was blocked off with yellow caution tape. One of the windows was simply boarded up, the hockey team’s logo painted beautifully on the plywood for all the street to see. An American flag waved gently overhead from a support pillar, lording patriotically over a yard that was overgrown and dotted with crushed red solo cups, broken beer bottles, a few lone shoes, and a hideous green cushioned chair.

But despite its lackluster state, the Haus did have a charm that Bitty couldn’t quite place his finger on. Perhaps it was that, despite the moldy shingles, peeling siding, holy porch, Banksy-styled windows, and trash spoiled front yard, the Haus showed its lived in-ness with pride, much in the same way Shitty was strutting on the stairs in his aviators and t-shirt of a toking Christmas tree.

“—e loss of virginity you may experience within these walls will range from reassuring to emotionally damaging,” their mustachioed host said with solid conviction. “Is that understood, brahs?”

The Frogs nodded.

“Well alright. Let’s go.” And with that, Shitty leaped up the stairs and pulled back the broken screen door like he was Willy Wonka ushering the Frogs into a world of pure imagination.

It was actually much less imagination and a lot more random underwear in every corner and absolutely nothing pure about the whole thing.

‘ _How did that even get up there?_ ’ Bitty wondered, looking at the G-string that was hanging like a fuchsia spider web from the ceiling fan in the rec room.  He gave the greasy green couch a wide berth, even more so when Shitty proudly declared that his hairy balls had rubbed over every inch of it, and trailed after the group as they ambled into the hallway.

“For the love of Christ, you brahs better be taking notes on the layout of the Haus. Haze-a-palooza will rain upon your heads without warning and you’ll need to know your way around the Haus naked, blindfolded, and bitch-ass shitfaced.”

Bitty heard Shitty, he honestly did, but right around the naked and blindfolded part he was distracted by something metal and white out of the corner of his eye. ‘ _Good Lord, it’s a kitchen_ ,’ he realized, straying from the pack to investigate. Or at least, it was a room that had been constructed with the intention of being a kitchen. The empty kegs, sink full of dirty bongs, and the tablecloth made of discarded brassieres would certainly lead one to believe the room was more of a dumping ground than a place where food was made. But there was a stove, a fridge, cupboards (filled with so much Sriracha), and most importantly, an oven.

“You poor thing,” Bitty said as he looked inside, pleased to see that the oven clearly had so little use that it was practically pristine. “I bet the only thing that’s been in you for years is pot brownies. Life is too cruel,” he lamented before switching his attitude to steely determination. If anyone had witnessed it, they might have said Bitty looked a lot like Jack when he had the puck and was going for the goal.

He ransacked the kitchen with speedy and thorough gusto. Somehow, Bitty did find flower, butter, sugar, and a can of cherry pie filling. He got to work with the fluid grace of a man who had made hundreds of pies, his hands working so smoothly that Bitty was sure he could make a perfect pie with his eyes closed. Once he popped his impromptu dessert into the oven ( _Betsy; you look like a Betsy_ ) Bitty got to work on clearing off the countertop and washing the bongs in the sink. He had his phone on the table playing one of his favourite playlists as he made himself at home in the Haus kitchen, cleaning and dancing and waiting for his pie to finish. It felt wonderfully comfortable as he swayed across the linoleum floor, wiping down the table so hard he could almost make out his reflection in the veneer.

Kitchens were wonderful havens. The only other kitchen Bitty had ever been allowed to work in was Coach’s, and Mrs. Coach had stamped so much of her personality on it that baking in it had felt like an intrusion. But this Haus kitchen, so unused and unkempt and screaming for salvation from the neglect of hockey bros felt like a perfect fit, warm and snug, like a pair of oven mitts. Since setting out on his own, Bitty had been looking for a kitchen of his own, and while the student kitchens were alright, this Haus kitchen could be a place he could really make his, where he could really be himself…where he could feel free.

Bitty continued his cleaning spree peacefully. As he was dusting he thought he heard Ransom and Holster in the hall, but the timer pinged and he was distracted pulling out a perfect cherry pie from ol’ Betsy when he turned around and realized that the rest of the team – upperclassmen, Frogs and all – were now crowding into the kitchen, staring at Bitty with open-mouthed awe.

“Um, hi y’all! So…well, haha! Um, see – heh – sometimes when I’m in a kitchen I just…pies appear. Heh. It’s cherry.”

“You made a pie –”

“From scratch—”

“Wow. We’ve only been here five minutes.”

“Stop exaggerating,” Bitty pleaded as he placed the pie on the windowsill to cool.

“Let’s keep him,” Ransom said, smiling mischievously at Holster.

“It’d be great for the plot!” Johnson called from somewhere in the Haus. No one paid his comment any mind.

“He can stay with us,” Ransom continued, looking to Shitty.

“We’re not sticking Bitty in the attic with you two,” Shitty said.

“But we’ll take really good care of him,” Holster whinged. “We’ll feed him, and walk him, and love him, and take care of him when he’s sick –”

“Y’all know I’m not a puppy, right?” Bitty interrupted, perturbed.

“But we need you to stay here forever and make pies,” Holster argued.

“I’m not gonna be your Haus pet, but if y’all let me use the kitchen whenever I want, I promise to make enough pies for everyone!”

There was a loud clamour in the kitchen for a while after that declaration. In seconds Bitty found himself seated at the table in front of Ransom and Holster with Shitty acting as their arbitrator. As everyone munched on fresh cherry pie, Bitty and the D-men were caught up in an intense negotiation battle over Bitty’s access to the Haus kitchen and the compensation due to the hockey team for said access. After half-an-hour of back and forth, Bitty eventually talked the boys down to two pies per day per kitchen use with a seventy-two hour notice of special pastry requests only for those players who actually lived in the Haus. In compensation for his desserts, Bitty was granted 24/7 access to the Haus kitchen with Ransom promising to have a key for the front door in Bitty’s possession by the end of the business day. Shitty wrote up the contract on a napkin. He even notarized it.

“Excellent doing business with you,” Holster said haughtily as he stood to lean over the table and shake Bitty’s hand. “Now, I do believe you have two pies to make.”

“I’ve already made one,” Bitty said, tilting his head towards the empty tin between them.

“That pie is null and void as it was made before the contract,” Ransom countered.

“He’s right,” Shitty added. “In a court of law, you wouldn’t’ have a leg to stand on.”

“Are pies really something the Supreme Court would bother with?” Ollie muttered.

“Do you want a two week pie penalty?” Shitty snapped back so fiercely that Ollie blushed and turned away. “Thought so.”

“Well, if y’all want more pie I’m gonna have to run out and buy some supplies,” Bitty said, clapping his hands decidedly.

“ ‘Swawesome! Pie and a kegster!” Ransom cheered, fist-bumping Holster.

“Kegster?” Bitty asked.

“Yeah, brah,” Shitty said. “The kegster is a sacred event, one that we humble players of the SMH are forever unworthy of partaking in its perfect glory and wonder…but fuck it if we don’t keep on trying!”

“And if Frogs want in, they gotta pull their own weight,” Holster said, crossing his arms and taking full advantage of his six foot four frame. His smile was positively devilish as he looked down on the Frogs, making them squirm as they worried what horrendous tasks would be demanded of them in order to gain entrance to the kegster.

“Alrighty, Bits, let’s go get your pie supplies,” Shitty said. “Now, are you thinking Racist Stop ‘n Shop, or Murder Stop ‘n Shop?”

“What?” Bitty asked, flustered as Shitty ushered him out of the Haus saying that, personally, he was partial to a murder run.

Once he’d been educated on what a murder run was, Bitty found himself spending a rather enjoyable early evening shopping with Shitty. They gathered what he needed to make both an apple and banana cream pie, and Shitty kept Bitty company in the kitchen as he worked on the dough, occasionally yelling orders at the other Frogs who were relegated to more grunt work chores. Shitty had insisted Bitty drink a beer while he baked. It was the first time Bitty had anything other than a glass of wine, and though he cringed at first, after his third Keystone Light the little blond baker was starting to see the attraction to booze. He was delightfully lightheaded and warm and ready for his next beer.

“There’s that fucking beautiful face I’ve been missing all day!” Shitty suddenly hollered around the joint he’d been smoking.

Bitty turned (a bit too quick; he almost tripped over his own feet) and saw Jack standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Jack was frowning, of course, and Bitty was overcome with the urge to pinch the surly Canadian’s cheeks and force a smile on him. He bet Jack was probably the most handsome man in New England when he smiled. Heck, he was already gorgeous when he was frowning.

“And will you be joining us tonight, oh captain, my captain?” Shitty wondered.

“We have class tomorrow,” Jack deadpanned, eyes scanning the kitchen and noting its improved cleanliness as well as the scent of cinnamon and apples wafting from the old oven. His penetrating gaze landed on Bitty, and the Georgian teen couldn’t decide if it was the beer or being the focus of Jack’s attention that left him a blushing mess.

“There’s pie!” he said, voice a bit shrill. It made him blush harder. “Did you…it’ll only be a few minutes. It’s apple. Do you like apple? Would you like a piece?”

Jack continued to stare a Bitty, gaze traveling up and down in a long hard stare that gave Bitty a chill. He felt hot and cold and bothered as Jack just looked at him and he kind of wanted the moment to last forever.

“Don’t go overboard, eh?” Jack said, breaking the moment to give Shitty a rather stern frown before leaving the kitchen. Bitty watched his captain leave, his stare lingering longer than was probably polite on Jack’s perfect derriere, wondering what noise he would make if Bitty took a bite out of it.

“It’s a beaut,” Shitty said, jolting Bitty out of his fantasy as he wrapped an arm over Bitty’s shoulders. “Fucking shame that ass belongs to Jack Zimmermann. Boy doesn’t know how to use it.”

“I think he uses it just fine,” Bitty said unintentionally, then busied himself awkwardly with cleaning the counter so that he could avoid any questions Shitty might throw his way. But Shitty just finished his joint and let Bitty work in silence, only speaking again when Holster and Ransom barged downstairs and handed out fresh cans of beer that they demanded everyone shotgun (a kegster tradition they claimed), and then the Haus filled with so many people and so much noise that Bitty soon forgot all about Jack Zimmermann and his perfect hockey butt.

Bitty drank more beer and let the kegster take hold of him. He greeted strangers and checked out several cute boys and gave his list of requests to Wicks who had been given DJ-ing duty. The music was good and transformed the atmosphere of the whole party, creating a sweaty, stale beer Wonderland that Bitty wanted to stay lost in for the rest of his life.

In the middle of a kegster no one cared that he was short, or that he baked, or that he was not totally human ( _but they didn’t know that…did they know that?_ ), or that he really, really, really, really liked looking at all the fit boys with a dreamy smile. In fact, during Bitty’s perusal of the fine male figure, he thought he spotted Ransom and Holster making out in a dark corner of the rec room, but it was hard to see anything in the dimly lit room, and before he could get a closer look he was shuffled by the crowd closer to the dance area.

His head was spinning and it felt wonderful. He drank another beer and started to dance alone, sashaying to the song, his whole body letting the music move him.

“Fuck Bits, dance with me,” Shitty invited, sidling up behind the gyrating blond, his breath bitter with beer and weed and his mustache tickling the shell of Bitty’s ear. Bitty turned to Shitty and smiled, stealing the sunglasses off his face to put them on his own as his agreement. The pair shuffled to the middle of the mob. Shitty pressed Bitty’s back to his chest, encouraging the smaller boy to lay his weight against him as they moved, loose and limber and lighter than air.

It felt so good having a hard, solid body grinding along his back, something he could lean on and feel and just enjoy in the moment. Shitty was a fantastic dance partner, cradling Bitty in his hips and swaying his body to the beat of the music, pressing his dick into the cleft of Bitty’s ass and leaving the Georgian boy feeling sexy for the first time in his life. If he was remotely attracted to Shitty, Bitty would turn in the man’s arms and boldly steal a kiss (and he was pretty sure Shitty would kiss back, no questions asked). They were surrounded by people dancing and yelling and making-out and not judging as two bros grinded together, invisible in a sea of students. It felt magnificent, his body thrumming with energy and tingling with arousal and Bitty was sure nothing could feel better than this.

And then David Guetta came on.

“Oh! I love this song!” Bitty screamed, pulling away from Shitty. “This is my song! It’s _my_ song. About _me_!” He looked up at Shitty, eyes bright, smile big and so very happy. “I fucking _love_ this song!”

And with a red solo cup in hand, and Shitty slapping his butt in good-natured encouragement, Bitty stood up on the rickety coffee table and belted out the lyrics to _Titanium_ for all the party to hear, the words tearing from the very depths of his soul.

“Shoot me down, but I won’t fall. I am TITANIUM…

_X_

**Now**

Bitty groaned and buried his face in his hands.

‘ _I need to learn to be more subtle_ ,’ he scolded himself silently, slamming his pillow over his head to block out the echo of Coach’s voice telling him over and over again that he needed to keep what he was a secret. Standing on a coffee table in the middle of a frat party and belting out a song about being made of titanium (it didn’t matter that the lyrics were symbolic, they were too close to the truth) was probably the furthest thing from subtle Bitty could do aside from popping back his left thumb to show off his charge port.

But at least he hadn’t done that. And at least he hadn’t been the only drunk college kid to stand on a piece of furniture and make a fool of himself (Ollie’s completely unprompted strip tease came to mind in a flash of blushing discomfort). And out of all of the poor life choices he had made the night before, at least one good thing had come out of the whole ordeal.

He had found a kitchen he could use 24/7. The unlimited baking access was almost (totally) worth the headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering, Shitty was a true bro and walked Bitty back to his dorm after the kegster, telling him what hangover supplies to have handy for the morning. He even let him keep the aviators.
> 
> Not much zimbits action in this chapter, but I promise the next one will fulfill some of your Jack/Bitty feels. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been leaving comments and kudos, and bookmarks and subscribing. I'm glad you're tagging along on this little adventure.
> 
> Next Chapter: Checking Practice - Just exactly why is Bitty so worried about getting checked?


	6. Checking Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Bitty have their first checking clinic, because Jack doesn't care why Bitty has a checking phobia, he just wants his #15 to get over it.

_It was dark, too dark to see even his hand in front of his face._

_It was hot, suffocatingly so, the air thick like smoke in his lungs._

_It was small and the concrete brick walls felt like they were closing in, squeezing him so that he was small too…so small that no one would ever find him._

_There was no light, no air, no space, and he was all alone._

_The echo of cruel laughter rattled in his ears. The memory of rough hands on his skin made his body quake. The heavy anchor of loneliness that lay over his shoulders weighed him down on the floor that reeked of urine and vomit. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t scream and he couldn’t bang against the locked door and he couldn’t even stand. There was nothing left inside of him save that hollow heaviness that was wrapping vice-like around his heart._

_He was going to die here. Die in the dark, in this horrible little closet, covered in his own sick…all alone. He was so alone._

_He was so scared._

_He could feel the blackness pressing down on him like a wool blanket. His tears burned against his cheeks, all salt and sulfur and the last bit of life he had left. He couldn’t get in enough air, his lungs were on fire, and so was his skin, his eyes, his tongue, his brain. The heat was crushing him._

_He was all alone._

_He was so scared._

_He was so scared…_

Bitty gasped when he woke, taking great heaving mouthfuls of air as if he had just breached the surface of the ocean. His lungs stung as he gulped for more oxygen, one hand frantically clawing at his blankets until it found the reassuring velveteen covered head of Señor Bunny. He pulled the stuffed animal to his face and breathed in the familiar pong of old cotton, squeezing the toy like it was his only lifeline.

His heart was beating worse than a bumblebee’s wings and from head to toe his skin was clammy with sweat. He could feel tremors along his muscles, making him twitch for several long minutes as he tried to make the nightmare leave him.

‘ _A memory_.’

“It’s not mine,” Bitty whispered venomously between grit teeth, repeating the three words over and over into Señor Bunny’s ears. He started to breathe through his nose, long and deep, remembering what the online articles he’d read about panic attacks had suggested he do when caught in the throes of one.

Breathe in, count to three, breathe out.

Breathe in, count to three, breathe out.

Bitty laid still for ages just breathing until he felt his heartbeat finally start to slow. He wasn’t in some small, dark, locked place and he never had been. He was in his dorm at Samwell and he was safe. He was in his bed, and he had Señor Bunny, and his phone was ringing –

 “Fuck, Eric, answer it!” one of his roommates grumbled from across the room. Bitty jumped and quickly padded towards his desk where his phone was charging. As the catchy beat of _Telephone_ continued to fill the room Bitty looked at the screen and saw a number he didn’t recognize. He debated taking the call when a pillow struck the back of his head along with a litany of colourful curses from his roommates to answer the damn thing.

“Hello?”

“Bittle.”

“Jack?” Bitty said, very surprised. He turned to his nightstand and saw his clock flashing 4:11. In the morning. “What the hell –”

“Get dressed and meet me outside. Bring your gear,” he said in a clipped tone.

“Wha? Jack, we don’t have practice toda—”

“You do. Hurry up.”

“Come on, Jack. It’s an off day. It’s _Sunday_ ,” Bitty whined.

“Be down here in five or I’ll come up and get you,” Jack warned.

“You can’t –”

“Shitty showed me how to pick the dorm locks freshman year. I can. Five minutes, Bittle.”

Bitty stared at his phone screen as it went dark, wondering if he might not still be dreaming because what sort of reality was he living in where Jack Zimmermann called him in the middle of the night on a Sunday to go to a hockey practice that didn’t exist? He knew Jack was dedicated, but good grief, that boy worked harder than God, and even the Good Lord took Sunday off!

Still, Bitty was awake and he felt he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep if he wanted to. Might as well be productive and get in a good skate to start the day. That didn’t mean Jack was right, though, and determined not to give him the satisfaction, Bitty took seven minutes to get ready and make his way down to meet his captain, not the least bit surprised to see Jack picking the main door lock. He gave Bitty a look of total disapproval, eyes icier than the rink they’d be soon be skating on.

The walk to Faber was mostly silent, with Bitty making the odd yawning commentary on how empty the campus was, but then that was because everyone with common sense was probably asleep in bed like a sane person. He thought he saw Jack’s shoulders quake in a silent laugh, but one look at this captain’s stony profile made Bitty doubt what he saw so he fell a bit behind the older boy and walked in silence the rest of the way. And if he just so happened to stare at Jack’s tight ass the whole time, well, he felt he deserved the view.

Faber was very different when there was no one around. It was cavernous and quite like a library; peaceful in that same way. She was like a friendly sleeping giant, welcoming the two athletes to join her in her icy world.

They made their way to the locker room, Jack having a set of keys because he was captain, and he busied about turning lights on while Bitty went to his cubby.

“How come you’re not getting in gear?” Bitty asked Jack. The Canadian was lacing up, but besides his skates he made no move to put anything else on.

“See you on the ice,” Jack said, leaving the locker room. Confused and curious, Bitty dressed quickly and joined his captain on the rink. The overhead lights were on, but the little bit of sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling windows made the rink shine like a mirror. Beautiful mauves and lavenders and pinks painted the ice, making it sparkle unlike anything Bitty had ever seen. And in the middle of this soft still palette of blush was Jack Zimmermann. He was skating in circuits, his figure lean, his lines crisp, a beautiful dark ballerina turning on a music box of ice.

All Bitty could hear was the hard hammering of his heart and the swish of Jack’s blades on the ice. It was strangely peaceful, just the two of them in Faber. It felt like Bitty and Jack were the only two men in the world, lost in a shimmering frozen kingdom. Sighing as he watched Jack, Bitty was completely mesmerized by the moment…

“Stop stalling, Bittle!”

…and then the moment was shattered.

With a grunt, Bitty took to the ice and followed Jack in his laps.

“It’s so early I’m going to vomit,” he complained, catching up to Jack.

“Haha! You’ve never seen the sunrise from a rink, eh?” Jack chuckled mockingly. “Thought you were a figure skating champion.”

“I don’t appreciate chirps before I’ve had coffee,” Bitty replied, having learned from Ransom and Holster’s latest _Hockey Shit_ vlog what a chirp was. It didn’t help that the chirp was about Bitty’s non-existent figure skating career. Sure, his transcripts said he was the Southern Junior Regionals champion of 2010, but the most figure skating Bitty had actually done was countless hours practicing on indoor rinks in malls as he’d hitchhiked up to Massachusetts.

Still, just because Bitty’s skating record wasn’t remotely true didn’t mean that Jack could go ahead and tease him about it.  In retaliation, Bitty picked up his speed and overtook Jack with ease, throwing the French Canadian a daring wink over his shoulder in a silent challenge. Jack took the bait and pushed himself to catch up, which made Bitty skate faster, which made Jack keep giving chase, which made Bitty laugh and Jack chuckle. Both boys lost track of how many times they circled the rink, caught up in the merry-go-round of cat and mouse. They were having fun without realizing that’s exactly what they were doing, forgetting that they had established a pretty solid passive aggressive acquaintanceship in the last six weeks. For a timeless moment, Jack and Bitty were happy, and they had found that happiness with each other.

“Alright. That’s enough warm-up,” Jack said eventually, face flushed, thighs burning, his hair slick with sweat and a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering low in his belly.

“But you didn’t catch me,” Bitty chirped, wanting the game to go on, wanting to hold on to this feeling of pure tingling joy. Jack just rolled his eyes and shrugged his head to the side.

“Go stand against the boards, Bittle – and brace yourself.”

Resigned, Bitty did as Jack instructed, his heart cracking a bit at having lost that carefree moment and still unsure of what his captain had planned. He got himself in position along the boards and shot Jack a questioning glance, watching as Jack moved to centre ice and stood perfectly still.

“Ready?”

“Sure, but Jac—No! No! No! No! No!”

Bitty barely swivelled out of the way of Jack’s charging figure, cringing when Jack slammed solidly into the boards. Jack grunted in pain, bending over to cradle his right hip.

“What in the deep fried hell was that?!” Bitty hollered. He didn’t flinch when Jack glared at him, frosty eyes narrowed with pain and frustration. Bitty stared right back, indignant and betrayed.

“I came at you slow,” Jack defended. “Seriously, Bittle! I don’t even have pads on.”

“What’s this all about, Jack?” Bitty demanded.

“Our first game is in two weeks. You need to get over your mental block about getting hit. I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re trying to get yourself killed,” Bitty said without thinking, only realizing his words when Jack smirked at him, his pretty lips quirking with mockery.

“Checking you is hardly going to hurt me,” Jack stressed. “I wouldn’t even bruise.”

“You don’t understand –”

“Bittle, how could you think that checking you would ever hurt me?”

‘ _Because it would be like ramming into a brick wall_ ,’ Bitty thought bitterly, biting his lips to keep from revealing the truth.

He knew he looked like a slight one hundred and twenty-five pound eighteen year old. If anyone was going to get hurt in a check, it would be him. But appearances, Bitty’s especially, were deceiving. His body was human, organic, but it did have some special modifications, like the CPU that made up 15% of his brain, and the left hand that had a charger port hidden in the thumb, and the hydraulics in his knees, and the experimental titanium-iron alloy that reinforced his skeleton.

The metal wasn’t even on the market, very strong and very heavy. Bitty had been born with the metal already fused to his bones, had learned how to walk and talk and live with that extra weight. The air-hydraulics allowed Bitty to control how he carried his mass, made it seem like he was light on his feet when in fact he was about as heavy as three NHL players put together. If someone hit him they would break more than a few bones. It was the genesis of Bitty’s checking block. He didn’t want to hurt anyone ( _hurt_ _Jack_ ) just as much as he wanted to play hockey. And because he was so quick on the ice, could spin-o-rama his way out of any check, he thought everything was alright. It seemed his captain didn’t agree.

“This is a bad idea.”

“We’re getting you over this issue,” Jack insisted, “now back against boards.”

“I don’t need to get over anything,” Bitty said, desperate. “My spins are doing me just fine.”

“You can’t run from your problems, Bittle.”

Bitty thought about his nightmare, that terrible crushing trapped feeling and the desperate need to escape it. He thought about Atlanta, Madison, about running away from his home and never looking back. And he thought about Jack, about the past he’d learned Jack might be running from, and he wondered who those words were really meant for.

“Ready?”

“No,” Bitty said half-heartedly, but lined himself up against the boards all the same. Knowing Jack was coming at him this time, Bitty let his upper body go slack and let himself be rammed lightly into the boards. He tried to compress himself, let Jack push against him with the least amount of resistance, but it was like fighting a kneejerk even though you knew to expect it. Despite his efforts Bitty’s body put up solid front.

“Wow,” Jack said under his breath, surprised and impressed at the strength Bitty was hiding. “Come on. Square up, push off, and skate through.”

Bitty didn’t try at all, worried he’d put too much power into his movements and send Jack halfway across the ice. He grunted a little, like he was trying to nudge Jack off, and eventually Jack gave up and moved away.

“How long are we going to do this?” Bitty wondered.

“Until you stop being afraid,” Jack said, moving back to centre ice.

“And is this what we’re gonna do every Sunday? These…checking clinics?”

“Sundays and Wednesdays. Five am.”

“You know…it doesn’t have to be only checking practice,” Bitty suggested, his mind working rapidly to find a way to save himself from Jack’s keen captain’s eye.

“What else would we do?” Jack asked, ramming into Bitty again, still amazed at how solid this short athlete was and stumped as to why he was so resistant to fight back.

“Well, I’ve noticed your speed could use some work,” Bitty chirped. “I mean, you’re fast, Jack, but I’m faster. I could help you. You could help me…” Bitty looked at Jack, saw his expression shift from surprised, to insulted, to mildly thoughtful. “We could help each other.”

“You think you can help my speed?” Jack asked carefully, almost as if he didn’t want to say the words aloud since it would mean he was lacking in hockey which was unacceptable.

“You think you can help with my checking phobia?” Bitty countered, feeling brave and sassy and like he’d already won.

Jack smirked.

“Checking today. We’ll see what you can teach me on Wednesday, eh?” His tone was still somewhat mocking, as if the idea that Bitty could teach him anything about hockey was a joke. Bitty found he didn’t care if it meant he could distract Jack even a little from the whole checking issue. “Back to the boards.”

They practiced for another hour, Jack rushing at Bitty and slamming him into the boards over and over again and each time Bitty did his best to make himself pliable with minor success. He didn’t dare push against Jack no matter how much the surly French Canadian commanded him to. He did this for Jack’s safety, of course, but as the checking continued, Bitty started to notice that his dick was taking far too eager an interest in having a hard male body roughly press against him.

Panicked, he scrunched his eyes shut tightly, willing the boner to disappear. He tried thinking of the most un-arousing things: the greasy green Haus couch, store bought-pie, freezer burn, canned peaches, but just when he thought he had won the battle against his erection, Jack would slam into him again, grunt into his ear, breathe heavily against Bitty’s neck, curse in Quebecois, his scent of ice and sweat making Bitty’s head spin. His dick throbbed with far too much interest, balls tingling and tightening with thoughts of Jack pressing just a bit closer, touching his lips to Bitty’s skin, maybe even sinking his teeth into the flushed flesh –

“Enough!” Bitty begged, wiggling away from Jack and the boards. Jack studied Bitty, saw how his bangs were damp and sticking to his brow, how his breathing was painfully laboured, his face red and body hunched over as if he were in the throes of one big cramp. And then there were Bitty’s eyes, so big and brown and tired, but mostly they were desperate, pleading for the clinic to be done. Jack simply sighed, not bothering to mask his disappointment.

“We should get going anyway,” he said, skating away from Bitty. “There’s a youth hockey tournament that’ll be starting soon. Come on. Showers.”

Bitty was grateful, speeding past Jack and vaulting for the locker room like he was being chased by an angry mob. He had most of his gear off by the time Jack entered the locker room and was hurtling for the showers without so much as a backward glance at his captain.

Jack didn’t let himself linger on the small injured twinge he felt in the back of his mind at Bitty’s clear desire to be away from him. As he toweled off the sweat on his neck and face, Jack told himself that he didn’t care if Bittle liked him or not. Being liked had nothing to do with being captain. Part of his job was to be honest about his teammates’ skills, to push them, make them try harder, be better, and if they hated him for it well, that wasn’t Jack’s problem. Still, he decided to forego the shower and leave the locker room before Bittle was finished to avoid any awkwardness. He could clean up at the Haus and anyway, he wanted to check out the youth group before he left.

Taking a seat close to the boards, Jack watched the teams of twelve year olds warm-up. He’d always liked kids. It was one of the reasons he’d decided to focus on coaching pee-wee hockey after he’d left rehab. Being with kids who played for the love of the game and only that had reinvigorated Jack’s own passion for hockey, helping him to realize that he did want to play professionally and that he would do whatever he had to to get back on track. It’s what had led him to Samwell, to the SMH and the Haus and everything else that had been his life for the last two years. And it had been a very good two years.

“Here,” a voice said close to Jack’s side. Recognizing the accent, Jack was surprised to see Bitty taking a seat to his right, holding out his hand to present Jack with the smallest pie he had ever seen. It sat delicately in Bittle’s upturned palm, a mini peace offering meant to crack the tension between the two young men.

Jack was confused, assuming that Bitty wanted to put as much distance between them as possible, or it had seemed so in the locker room. But now Bittle was freshly showered, his hair damp and skin pink and he looked much more relaxed than Jack had seen him since waking him up. He smiled encouragingly and waited for Jack to respond.

“Not exactly the breakfast of champions,” Jack chirped, taking the pie. He held it to his nose and took a deep breath, his whole body warming as the scents of peaches and cream and butter overwhelmed him.

“You’ll change your tune once you take a bite, mister,” Bitty said confidently, taking his own mini pie from the container on his lap and indulging in a large bite. “So, any particular team you prefer?” he asked, pointing at the ice.

“No. I just like watching kids play,” Jack said. “I used to coach back in Montreal. It was a few years a—mon Dieu!”

Jack had taken a bite of his mini pie as he was talking and the moment the crust and peach filling had touched his tongue he’d been stunned. It was the first time he had ever eaten one of Bitty’s infamous desserts and he now understood why the rest of the team were always so desperate for them.

The pastry melted on his tongue, warm and light, making his skin tingle as if he was being wrapped tight in a hug. It was like tasting sunshine and he couldn’t help the delighted moan of approval that escaped his lips when he took another bite. He didn’t miss the smug look on Bitty’s face as he watched Jack enjoy the pie which made him bump shoulders with him playfully.

“You were saying about Montreal?” he urged when Jack finished his treat.

“Just that I coached there for a while.”

“What did you do before that?” Bitty asked.

Jack paused in licking his fingers to look at Bitty out of the corner of his eye. He saw that the smaller boy was nervous and looked like he regretted his query as soon as he’d asked it, realizing too late that he’d crossed a line.

“I mean, did you grow up in Montreal? Go to school there? I’ve read that the city has some of the most amazing bakeries in Canada. The world! Do you have a favourite? I mean, I don’t imagine you eat too many sweets, so I guess you weren’t a bakery kind of kid, but what about a favourite Quebecois dish? What about tourtière? I know it’s a meat pie, but I’m sure I could mak—” 

“You can just ask,” Jack interrupted, making Bitty jump. Jack’s tone was even, his focus on the rink. He was trying too hard to be casual about it, as if he’d gotten used to being asked about his time in rehab a long time ago, resigned to accept the prying questions as part of his life. It made Bitty’s heart ache for Jack, for the way he must have struggled, then and now. There were a lot of things about Jack Zimmermann that Bitty wanted to know, but in this moment there was only one thing he could think to ask.

“Are you OK now?”

Jack’s jaw, tight and set, went slack. He looked at Bitty, wary and suspicious, but Bitty just looked right back. His expression was kind, sincere, and it made Jack’s heart swell with absolute affection for the young man at his side.

When people asked about the overdose it was always what kind of drugs, or what it felt like, or who found him, or what drove him to it, or did he remember. No one, not even his parents, had ever just asked him, simply, if he was OK.

It felt like Jack was seeing Bitty for the first time, really seeing him, his sight going beyond the too small for hockey player and seeing Bitty for what he really was: sweet, kind, and genuine. What he lacked in skill and experience he made up for in passion, not just for hockey but everything else; baking, and music, his friends, the team, and Jack, too. When he asked if Jack was OK now, he meant it.

Knowing that Bitty cared, and wondering why he did when Jack knew he’d been nothing but a borderline bully to him since that first skate, made Jack feel…well, a lot of different things, but mostly guilt and appreciation. He promised himself he would try harder ( _be better_ ) with Bitty, starting by answering his question.

“Yes.”

Bitty smiled.

“Good. I’m glad.”

Jack’s lips quirked in a half smile, a gesture to let Bitty know that things between them were fine (still complicated if the fluttering of Jack’s heart was any indication, but fine, really). They returned their attention to the game in time to see one of the boys knock another down. The felled child got right up again, shook it off, and headed back into the game.

“Pretty sad when a twelve year old can take a better check than you.”

“For the love of Beyoncé!” Bitty cried, shaking his head. Jack smiled and reached over to the container in Bitty’s lap and took another pie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a great big thank you to everyone who has been commenting, bookmarking, kudos-ing, reading, and just plain enjoying this fic. I appreciate all of you!
> 
> Next Chapter: The 4th Wall is That Way - at the celebration of their first game, Johnson gives Bitty a nudge in the right direction.


	7. The 4th Wall is That Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnson tries his hand at matchmaking. It goes both according and not according to plan, but that's what Johnson expected all along.

**E.R. – I.C.B. Vlog #240 | 10.05.2013 | 22:55:51 | Recording…**

_‘I GOT AN ASSIST! I GOT AN ASSIST! I GOT AN ASSIST!_

_‘IN OUR VERY FIRST GAME!!!!!!_

_‘GAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!_

_‘This is the most exciting moment of my life. I can’t – I’m just so excited!_

_‘Alright, I have to set the scene, make sure that the moment is saved forever. Okay, okay, okay. So…_

_‘It was the last minute of the second period. We’re down 0 to 1 with Hanover. And I’m coming down the boards just like in practice, just like I’ve done dozens of times, you know? Then this Dartmouth d-man comes out of nowhere. And he’s huge! I’m talking a colossus. I’m sure his mama took steroids when she was expecting this beast. Anyway, he revs up at me and he’s like:_

‘ “Durrrrrrr! I’m gonna fuck you up like the fucking pussy midget fuck you are, little fucker!” 

_‘And I’m like:_

‘ “Oh, sweet Mary. Please don’t check me! Please don’t check me! For the love of all things pie in this world **DO NOT CHECK ME!** ” 

‘ _I’m talking full panic, like the first day of checking clinic with Jack. For a moment all I could picture was this crazy goon’s face being bruised and broken and all because he was stupid enough to blindly check what looks to be the weakest player on the Samwell team. I realized that I had made the worst decision of my life by joining the team. I could really, really hurt someone! I had no business being on a college hockey team!_

_‘But that lasted only a moment. I got my wits back and you know what, I can play on the team with no regrets because I am quick and nothing slips out of a check better than the ol’ Bittle spin-o-rama! You bet I dangled ‘em with my fancy footwork, then I threw some sick sauce to Ransom and he one-timed it in **GLOVE SIDE**!_

_‘IT. WAS. AMAZING!_

_‘And then the buzzer went and everybody hugged ‘cuz for some reason that’s what hockey bros do and it was so wonderful! By far the best part of the sport. And you should have seen Jack’s stupid face. I can’t even describe it, it was just…Gah!_

_‘…_

_‘I love hockey._

_‘…_

_‘I wish Coach could have been there_.’

**End Recording | Saving…**

_X_

“You gotta do it, Bitty.”

“It’s the bylaws!”

“Y’all said shotgunning a beer followed by a Jägerbomb the minute I crossed the threshold was a bylaw!”

“There’s more than one bylaw, Bits.”

“I think y’all are making these rules up as you go along,” Bitty laughed. He was feeling wonderfully tipsy as Ransom and Holster escorted him into the heart of the kegster.

The Haus had been packed by the time Bitty had shown up for the party, students milling about on the porch and lawn, many already three sheets to the wind while the rest weren’t far behind. He’d been ambushed by the d-men the moment he’d set foot in the Haus, plied with alcohol as they patted his back and ruffled his hair, bragging to everyone in the vicinity that he had scored the first point of the season. Strangers had fist-bumped Bitty and asked for selfies like he was some kind of celebrity. And speaking of celebrities…

“Hey, where’s Jack? I don’t see him,” Bitty said, peering through the crowd.

“And you won’t,” Ransom answered. “Jack’s not really a Haus party kind of captain…since he doesn’t drink, you know, anymore because…well, you know.”

“Oh yeah, poor Jackie-boy,” Holster snorted. “He may not party down here with the rest of us plebeians, but I guarantee he’s got some Zimmermann puck bunny in his room right now sucking his dick like it’s the world’s sexiest lollipop. Jack doesn’t need to party to have his own kind of good time, trust me.”

“Oh…oh, really,” Bitty said, considering he didn’t know how to respond to that. The news that Jack didn’t party as a general rule made a lot of sense, so did the not drinking, but the puck bunny (no doubt of the female variety) comment threw Bitty for a loop. It’s not that he didn’t think Jack wasn’t sexually active, but the confirmation of his bedroom activities made Bitty feel strange, like ants were coiling over and over again across his skin. It was irritating as hell and left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Attention Samwell!” Shitty hollered. Bitty realized belatedly that the music had stopped and the party had come to standstill as everyone turned their attention to the mustachioed man wearing a denim American flag vest (sans shirt, naturally) and the aviators Bitty had returned to him weeks ago.

“What’s going on?” Bitty asked Ransom, but was shushed by Holster.

“As everyone here knows, it is the sacred duty of the Samwell Hockey team to adhere to the SMH bylaws, so recorded in the year 2011 and chiselled for posterity on the walls in which you find yourselves surrounded.”

“Where –”

“Basement. Behind the hot water tank,” Ransom muttered to Bitty, spine straightening when Shitty turned a surly frown in his direction for the interruption.

“In accordance with these hallowed texts, the frog who gets the first point of the season will be the frog to do the season’s first official keg stand!” A great roar of applause and cheers rang through the Haus. “This year, that honor goes to Mr. Eric Richard Bittle! Mr. Birkholtz! Bring forth the sacrificial frog!”

Bitty put up a little resistance as Ransom and Holster pushed him towards Shitty and the shiny keg at his feet.

“Gentlemen, raise the frog.”

“No!” Bitty yelled, dodging Ransom and Holster’s grasping arms. “I can lift myself,” he insisted, voice a tad shaky. If the d-men tried to lift Bitty they would quickly discover that he wasn’t as slight as he appeared. Even now they were looking at him like he was being silly to refuse their help. “I really can. I’m pretty flexible, and balanced. All that figure skating, you know?”

“Enough chit-chat and more alcohol abuse, if you don’t mind,” Shitty ordered. “Come on, Bits. Show us what you got.”

Relieved, Bitty grabbed hold of the keg and, with all of the concentration his beer saturated brain could manage, he lifted himself up, toes pointing perfectly at the ceiling. The crowd watching went wild while Holster and Ransom led them in a chant of ‘ ** _Bitty! Bitty! Bitty_**!’ as the young man sucked on the nozzle until his face was beet red.

“Fucking ‘swawesome!” the whole of the team (less Jack) cried when Bitty ungracefully lowered himself back to his feet.

Bitty raised his hands above his head in gladiatorial victory as the music came back on and the room full of partiers returned to their night of dancing, drinking, and bad choices. Bitty laughed, euphoric in the moment, and took a deep swig from the red solo cup of beer someone had pushed into his hand. He watched as the rest of the frogs took their turn at the keg, swaying on the spot to the music of Elle King.

“Hi,” someone said as they tapped Bitty’s shoulder. Turning around, Bitty found himself staring that the broad, very muscled chest of a man who was easily a foot taller than him. Bitty looked up and stared into a pair of wonderfully warm hazel eyes. The man standing in front of him with an easy, but nervous, smile was gorgeous. His skin was the colour of coffee beans, his face smooth as marble with cheekbones sharp as diamonds and a jaw that was perfectly square. His stubble was manicured to perfection and his dark hair was shaved closely to his scalp. There was a smoldering aura about him that made Bitty weak in the knees.

“Hello,” he said.

“You’re Bittle. Number fifteen.”

“Yes. But, um, everyone, the guys, they just call me Bitty.”

“Bitty. Hi,” the beautiful stranger repeated with his beautiful mouth. “So! That assist. Fucking amazing. You’re amazing…um, I mean, an amazing hockey player.”

“Thank you,” Bitty said, flattered. “You’re a hockey fan?”

“Comes with the job,” Mr. Gorgeous said. “I’m Wellie.”

“Oh. Hello, Wellie! That’s a lovely name. Very different. Is it short for something?”

“No, no,” Wellie laughed, stepping closer into Bitty’s personal space. He smelled of spicy cologne and it made Bitty want to press against his broad chest and just sniff him for hours. “I’m Wellie.”

“Yes,” Bitty said, confused. It seemed that Wellie’s looks made up for his brains. Bitty could work with that.

“I’m not explaining myself right,” Wellie said, blushing. “I’m Wellie the Dancing Well. The Samwell mascot.”

“Oh!” Bitty exclaimed then started laughing so hard that he had to brace himself against the man at his side. His hand rested on Mr. Gorgeous’ thick bicep and when he squeezed just a little, Mr. Gorgeous placed his large warm hand over Bitty’s fingers.

“My name is Noah.”

And for the next hour Bitty and Noah (Mr. Gorgeous in Bitty’s heart) chatted amongst the clamour of the kegster. They flitted from room to room, sipping from their red solo cups, laughing and flirting with the odd friendly touch until Bitty was sure it was more than the booze that was making him feel so hot.

“I’ve got to be heading out,” Noah said reluctantly, edging towards the door. Bitty, always a proper gentleman, walked him out on the porch. “Listen, Bitty, would you want to, like, meet up sometime? I mean, not at a game, or a party but like…coffee? Maybe?”

“Sure!” Bitty said easily.

“Great! And like, we could hang out?”

“At the coffee shop? Oh! Have you been Annie’s?”

“Yeah, I have – look, Bitty, you know what I’m asking, right?”

“Um, yes? Coffee at Annie’s sometime, right?”

“Right! That’s exactly – I’m not doing this very well.”

“Depends what you’re trying to do.”

Noah sighed, rubbing a hand across his short hair, his pretty eyes hooded and promising something Bitty didn’t dare put a name to.

“Look, I’m trying to ask you out…as in a date. But I’m not sure if you’re interested in guys like that and it’s not exactly polite to just outright ask, but I think you’ve been flirting with me all night so I figured I’ve got a shot, but I don’t want to assume so –”

“It’s a date,” Bitty said, eager and so happy. He’d never been asked out before, had never dreamed that a man as stunning as Noah would be interested in him, and he was so curious about what would happen on an actual date that he jumped at the chance. He snagged Noah’s phone and programed his number into it, telling him to get in touch whenever he decided he wanted to meet at Annie’s. Noah smiled and hugged Bitty before calling it a night and leaving the Haus. Bitty watched him go, his insides feeling like pudding. He wanted to just melt into the floor at the same time he wanted to scale the roof and proclaim to all of Frat Row that he had a date.

He decided to go to the bathroom instead.

He’d been having such a good time talking to Noah that he hadn’t really realized how badly he needed to pee. Shuffling through the dancers, Bitty got to the main floor bathroom and knocked. No one answered so he tried the knob. It was locked.

“Hey! Anyone in there?” he hollered.

“Occupied,” a deep voice that sounded suspiciously like Holster’s called back.

“Holster? I have to go.”

“Not now, Bits,” another voice, and Bitty was sure it was Ransom, said from behind the locked door.

“Justin! Shut the fuck up!” Holster hissed, barely loud enough for Bitty to hear. He knocked a few more times, pleading to be let in to use the toilet, but Ransom and Holster had stopped talking back.

‘ _Probably making out again_ ,’ Bitty thought as he leaned against the door and crossed his legs, wondering what he should do. He saw the stairs and remembered that there was another bathroom on the second floor. He also remembered that the second floor was off limits to anyone except the Haus residents during a party, but Bitty was desperate and he was sure that if he got caught he could make a ‘forgive-me’ pie and all would be pardoned.

Stealthily, Bitty slipped up the stairs and past the yellow caution tape and looked down the hall. All the doors were closed, and he couldn’t remember where Shitty had told the Frogs the second bathroom was when he’d given the Haus tour last month. He looked to his left and saw a note taped to one of the doors.

‘ _Hey Bittle, the bathroom you’re looking for is that way – Johnson_ ’

Bitty was touched by Johnson’s note and too drunk to consider how weird it was that the goalie would know he was looking for a bathroom. There was an arrow on the note indicating that the door behind Bitty was where he wanted to go. Glad to have found what he was looking for, Bitty turned the knob and walked into the room, flicking on the light.

He wasn’t in a bathroom.

“Jack,” Bitty said quietly, stunned into paralysis.

What was supposed to be a bathroom turned out to be the bedroom of Jack Zimmermann. It was obvious that the dark haired surly captain had been trying to sleep. He was in his bed, under the sheets, headphones dangling from his ears, and when he sat up and turned on his beside lamp to see who was so rudely intruding in his room Bitty realized that he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Uh…” Bitty gasped, blatantly staring at Jack. He’d seen him topless in the locker room but he’d never been so close before. He could see Jack’s dark wispy chest hair, his nipples dark as red wine, silvery stretch marks hugging his shoulders, and the line of hard, solid muscle that defined his abdominals. He looked good enough to eat.

“Bittle?” Jack asked, removing his earbuds.

“I have to pee,” Bitty said, his face going hot and red. “I mean, I’m looking for a bathroom, and Rans and Holtz are locked in the one downstairs and I know there’s a toilet up here somewhere and Johnson taped a note to his door and said I should come here but I shouldn’t listen to Johnson and I’m so sorry, Jack, so sorry, I’ll just go, I’m gonna lea—”

“You can use the bathroom there,” Jack said pointing to the right. Bitty traced the line of Jack’s arm, following the immaculate wave of muscle from shoulder to bicep, forearm to wrist to finger. “Bittle?”

“OK!” Bitty exclaimed, so desperate to escape Jack’s half naked presence that he never noticed the adorable blush that stained the French Canadian’s cheeks as he scuttled past him, shutting the bathroom door a bit too hard.

“What the hell?” Bitty muttered at his reflection, bracing against the sink and using every drop of his willpower to battle the rising interest of his twitching penis. “No,” he whispered harshly at his groin. “You are here because you have to pee, not for…other things.”

But it was hard ( _not funny!_ ) to fight the keen interest his body had in Jack. It wasn’t that Bitty hadn’t noticed that Jack was beautiful beyond measure. The man was every bit the Adonis Shitty proclaimed him to be and Bitty knew that, but he’d never yet been so hyperaware of Jack’s good looks: his symmetrical features, the boyish curl of his black hair that made him seem so much younger than he was, the piercing ice blue suns of his irises, a body made of muscle and sinew with curling dark hair that Bitty’s fingers wanted to stroke and follow past his bellybutton, down, down until –

“Fuck,” he muttered, the battle of the boner lost. In angry defeat, Bitty shoved a hand down his pants. His dick was so hot it practically burned his fingers. He was heavy in his palm, his balls tight and sensitive and he knew he was very, very close. Bitty didn’t have to work long stroking himself to a brutal orgasm, biting his clenched fist to keep Jack from hearing him. It was worse than when he’d had to beat himself off in the shower after their first checking clinic. He’d thought that time had been a fluke, just his body’s natural reaction to having someone touching him again and again, but now here he was weeks later washing his hands of ejaculate he had just spent over the same impossible boy without so much as a breath having brushed against him.

This was ridiculous!

Bitty splashed some water on his face and gave himself a moment to let his heartbeat return to normal before feeling just slightly brave enough to leave the bathroom. He opened the door slowly and peeked around it before exiting. Jack was sitting up in his bed, red and black flannel pyjama bottoms and a grey hoodie now keeping his perfect body perfectly covered which was perfectly fine because Bitty was sure that even dressed head to toe in a moo-moo Jack would still look perfectly perfect.

“Thanks,” Bitty mumbled, eyes staring at his shoes as he stood awkwardly in the room. “I’ll just see myself out. Sorry about – sorry.”

“How’s the party?” Jack asked, and Bitty was so surprised he looked up at Jack and stammered out an answer.

“Great! It’s—there was a keg stand and, you know, it’s…there’s music and food and beer…everyone’s having a good time. It’s fun.”

Jack smiled and nodded as if he were hanging off Bitty’s every word.

“Did you do a keg stand?” he asked.

Bitty let out a huffed chuckle.

“How did you know?” he asked, edging closer to Jack’s bed and surprised that through his bashfulness he was able to make himself sit demurely on the very edge of the mattress. Jack scooched closer, leaving a respectable foot of space between and making Bitty bite the inside of his cheek to keep from gasping.

“SMH bylaws,” Jack said. “You did get the first point of the season.”

“Are they really chiselled on the basement wall?” Bitty asked.

“No. Just written in permanent marker. Shitty did it our freshman year.”

“I am not even a bit surprised,” Bitty said. “So, what’re you doing up here? The party’s for the team. You’re invited, too.”

“I got partying out of my system a long time ago,” Jack answered.

“You make yourself sound ancient,” Bitty chirped lightly, knowing Jack was referencing his time in the Q and all of the things he did before rehab. “Still, it’d be nice if our captain made an appearance.”

“No thanks. Crowds aren’t…they’re exhausting, eh? I mean, being surrounded by so many people, I can only handle so much. The game was enough crowd for me to deal with for one day. After that…I like being in the quiet.”

“Oh!” Bitty exclaimed, rising from the bed. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ll go. Here I am chatting away and you want to be alo—”

Jack reached out and wrapped a hand around Bitty’s wrist, stopping the eighteen year old in his tracks. Jacks’ fingers were calloused and hot on his skin. They tightened just a bit, strong, not pulling Bitty back but stopping him from going. Holding in hiccoughs, Bitty looked down at Jack, still sitting on the bed, still holding his wrist. His pupils were large, making his eyes seem look like the blue-black of midnight, and his mouth was open only a touch, as if he was surprised he had reached out for Bitty at all. He didn’t let go.

“I said crowds make me tired,” Jack finally said. “You’re hardly a crowd, Bittle.”

Bitty swallowed, searching for his voice.

“I know that’s probably a chirp about my height,” he said, “but I’m still kinda tipsy so I can’t decide.”

Jack laughed and urged Bitty to sit back on the bed.

“Don’t know why you’d want me for company anyway,” he said as Jack continued to battle his sniggers unsuccessfully. “I mean, there’s loads more interesting people downstairs than me. You could have your pick! You know, Holster even said you probably had a puck bunny up here giving you a…” Bitty paused, face contorting in horrified embarrassment. “Oh no! Jack! I’m sorry! Did you?”

“Did I?”

“A puck bunny! Shit! I’m so, so, sorry. Did you make her hide in the closet? Under the bed? Did she have to slip out when I went to the bathroom?”

“She who?” Jack asked, sliding closer to Bitty so he could shake him out of his ramble.

“The girl giving you a blowjob!” Bitty shouted. “Holster said, and then I walked in and probably ruined everything.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Jack said, gripping Bitty’s shoulder. “There was nobody up here with me.”

“But Hols—”

“He says a lot of things and most of them are bullshit.”

Bitty looked at Jack, saw the simple honesty around his eyes and mouth, and knew Jack wasn’t trying to spare his feelings; he was telling the truth. And once his mortified panic eased out of him, Bitty’s booze cloaked memory recalled that Jack had been trying to sleep when Bitty had walked uninvited into his room. There was no way Jack could have heard him coming, stashed a secret lover in the closet and lay under the covers pretending to be asleep. Bitty had let his imagination, and emotions, run away on him again. It was a bad pattern he was falling in to, misunderstanding Jack, and he needed to work on trusting the man who was his captain.

As Bitty relaxed, Jack felt the muscles of Bitty’s shoulder sag under the weight of his palm. He relaxed, too, glad.

“I was alone, I promise,” he assured before smirking. “The closest thing to a puck bunny I’ve had in my room in over a year is you, Bittle.”

Bitty twisted his body to face Jack, their noses almost brushing as Jack had leaned closer when he’d been talking. Bitty could feel Jack’s breath on his skin, see the subtle grey shadow of stubble along his jaw, hear the bobbing tremor of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed heavily. They were so close it would only take the tilt and lift of a chin for their lips to contact and Bitty thought that might be both the greatest and scariest sort of checking he could imagine.

He licked his lips and gasped when he caught Jack following the movement. There was a hunger in his eyes that seemed starving for…something. That look sent jolts of desire coursing through Bitty’s body. His heart and his mind, even his soul responded to the man sitting beside him, seeking contact like the polar ends of a magnet.

It made Bitty yearn and it made Bitty afraid.

“I’m not supposed to be up here,” Bitty panted, rising up from the bed and shattering the wonderful warm electric moment. His chin managed to brush against Jack’s lips in his haste to stand and the touch felt like a brand. “I’m sorry. I’m gonna go.” He didn’t wait for Jack to speak and it didn’t matter because Jack stayed silent until Bitty was out of his room, door shut behind him.

Bitty shuddered as he leaned against the door, his knees week. He felt as if his hard drive was crashing, his mind reeling at what had very nearly happened only to immediately question that same reality. He had almost kissed Jack. Jack had almost kissed him. They had almost…

But that wasn’t right. Jack didn’t think of Bitty that way. Bitty knew that truth as certainly as he knew that he was an evincive robotic intelligent cybernetic being. Everything that had happened in Jack’s room, that three minutes that felt like one million years, had to be a figment of Bitty’s imagination. Men like Jack didn’t want to kiss men like Bitty. Because men like Jack wanted to kiss women. And Bitty was a fool to imagine for a moment that it was otherwise.

Shaking fingers caressed the spot on his chin that Jack’s lips had accidentally skimmed, the only keepsake he had of that moment. It felt as if all of the warmth in his body emanated from that point, the sweet rolling flush traveling down his throat and spine, across his chest, around his thighs, curling around his balls and branching into his dick like a magic spell. He was getting hard again and he didn’t have the strength to fight it.

Bitty stared at the note still taped to the door opposite Jack’s bedroom like it was his worst enemy. He tore it from the wood and ripped it into tiny pieces, throwing them out the window at the end of the hall. He was going to give Johnson a piece of his mind when he saw the goalie next, but first he had to deal with a growing problem.

Resigned, Bitty trudged down the stairs, deciding to see if Ransom and Holster were done whatever they were doing in the main floor bathroom so that he could have a few minutes of privacy to rub one out before calling it a night and heading to his dorm.

It never occurred to Bitty that behind a closed door Jack was in his own bathroom touching himself, imagining that every firm demanding pull on his dick was from the hand of a small Southern blond man with brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the tension's getting thick now, isn't it? But, just because Jack and Bitty are sexually attracted to one another doesn't mean they like each other...no yet, anyway.
> 
> So, for those who might be wondering, Noah (aka Wellie, aka Mr. Gorgeous) is basically my fic doppleganger of [ Shemar Moore. ](https://www.google.ca/search?q=shemar+moore&biw=1366&bih=643&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwi11Yr36L7OAhXG9x4KHXVHD_MQ_AUIBigB#imgrc=_) And the title of this chapter is based on the [ note ](https://www.google.ca/search?q=omg+check+please+johnson&biw=1366&bih=643&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwidpIWk6r7OAhVIkx4KHZdTBqkQ_AUIBigB#tbm=isch&q=omg+check+please+bitty%27s+room&imgrc=tifAGXAgHA8bEM%3A) Johnson left Bitty when he gave him his dibs.
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading and enjoying!
> 
> Next Chapter: Away - The SMH are on a long bus ride coming back from an away game. Things are a bit tense between Jack and Bitty, but that's not going to stop them from getting a little closer.


	8. Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming back from an away game is the perfect time for Jack and Bitty to bond (under the watchful eye of Senor Bun, of course).

They’d won the game against Colgate 2 – 1.

It had been a tough win, and most of the team were half asleep before the bus had even warmed up to take them on the long ride back to Samwell. Bitty’s entire body ached, muscles still recovering from the game. He had skated fast and hard and his knees were not thanking him for it. Neither was his back as it pinched when he slouched low in his seat. It was awkward, but Bitty managed to contort himself into some sort of comfortable pretzel and took several long deep breaths.

He was letting himself get too worked up.

He could feel his battery was getting low. He’d managed to check it in the bathroom when they'd stopped in Albany and was nervous to find that he was sitting at 15%. While it was enough to keep him going until he got back to Samwell, it still made him anxious, leaving Bitty envisioning the worst case scenarios that might cause a delay in their return to campus (bus breaking down, construction, surprise New England volcanoes erupting). He needed to relax and a light sleep would be just the ticket. Of course, the little roadblock to that plan was that Bitty couldn’t sleep without Senor Bun.

Discretely, Bitty looked around the bus. He found Jack first, noting that he was the only one reading a textbook. Most of the boys were dozing or texting or listening to music, but not their dear old captain. It was endearing, really, seeing Jack tackle his studies with the same seriousness as he did his hockey. Bitty remembered how focused and sharp Jack had been on the ice during their game, so in tune with the team, even taking Bitty's assist perfectly to score them the winning goal. He'd been so happy after taking the shot that he'd turned to Bitty, eyes alight and face so beautiful that Bitty had gone breathless for a moment. He'd thought they were going to hug, saw Jack take a few smooth strides towards him, but then the rest of the team had blindsided their captain in an uproarious celly and the moment was lost.

Sighing a little too longingly, Bitty quickly checked over the rest of the team one more time. Sure that none of them were paying him any mind, he slowly reached into his duffle bag on the floor and wrapped his fingers around the reassuring velveteen of his stuffed rabbit. Just touching the toy was enough to ease some of Bitty's nerves and when he clutched it close to his chest he felt calmer, sure that he would make it back to his dorm without incident. He began to pet the ears of the toy rabbit, each stroke relaxing him as if he were soaking in a hot bath, the soft warm fur assuring him that everything would be alright. He felt himself relax, his eyes closing, the sounds of the bus a pleasant dull whir as he felt himself starting to doze.

_ X_

“What are you laughing at?” Jack asked, highlighting a passage in his textbook. He waited patiently as Shitty got control of his giggles long enough to show Jack his phone.

“Lardo is a riot!” he praised, brushing a tear from his eye. Jack couldn't help cracking a smile, though he was a bit embarrassed that the sight of two elephants going at it had amused him so. Lardo had even captioned the picture as 'making the beast with two backs' which only made the whole thing funnier.

“The lighting's not very good,” is what he said as he handed the phone back to Shitty, which made his friend burst out in a new slew of cackles.

“You're the fucking best, Zimmermann! My fucking favourite.”

“Don't tell Lardo,” Jack cautioned, enjoying the slight blush that coloured the ends of Shitty's ears as closed their manager's Instagram and started texting her instead. “Telling her about the game?”

“You know it,” Shitty answered.

“Give Lardo a break, Shits. It's like six in the morning in Kenya.”

“Seven, actually, and Lards' been up for ages. You know our little night owl.”

“Not as well as you do,” Jack chirped.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shitty grumbled without any fire behind his words, eyes never leaving the screen as his thumbs raced over the keys after every response. Jack smiled and nudged Shitty before turning back to his textbook. He tried to start reading another chapter but his eyes were having none of it. The crappy bus light and the fine print in the book were doing his eyes no favours. It was time to take a break.

He sat up and stretched, getting the kinks in his back and neck, eyes scanning the bus to check on his team. Besides Holster and Ransom giggling a bit too maniacally under their breath (never a good sign), everyone was quietly keeping to themselves.

Inevitably, Jack looked over at Bittle. He was sitting quietly with his headphones in, appearing for all the world to be asleep. He looked younger in sleep, which seemed impossible since Bittle already looked thirteen on his best days, dwarfed by the rest of the SMH whenever they took to the ice. His size and youth made everyone underestimate him and Bittle used that to his advantage, skating past players twice his height and girth with a speed not seen too often in the NCAA. The way he'd snatched the puck from the Raiders' left wing and was across the rink to give Jack the assist before the guy even realized it was gone had been a beaut of a play. After making the goal Jack had wanted to scoop Bittle up in his arms and carry him around the rink on his shoulders in like his very own Georgia Stanley Cup.

Or kiss him.

Jack still wasn't too sure what he would have done, and since Shitty had a lead a full team pile up that interrupted the moment he would never know. He was still debating whether that was a bad thing or not.

' _Hell_ ', he thought turning away from the Frog and settling back into his seat, ' _I still don't know if Bittle is a bad thing or not._ '

Jack could feel his stomach starting to pinch the way it always did when he was thinking too much, especially about things that worried him and nothing made him worry more than his own feelings. He needed a distraction, so he started skimming through his iPod looking for his Garth Brooks playlist when he noticed Ollie making his way down the aisle towards the lavatory.

“Is that a toy rabbit, Bittle?”

The accusation was loud and startling. Taken by surprise, Jack turned back in time to see Ollie snatch the stuffed bunny out of Bittle's hold. The drowsy teen was clearly still a bit groggy, but the moment he realized his rabbit wasn't in his arms, the blond became alert and stood up to face Ollie.

“Cut it out,” he said, taking out his earbuds and reaching for the toy.

“Seriously, Bittle? You brought a toy with you to college?” Ollie asked through some snorting guffaws, drawing the attention of most of the bus. Jack saw Bittle blush and his shoulders tense as he realized that the team was staring.

“So what if I did?” he countered. “Now hand him back, please.”

“Him? Damn, does this thing have a name, too?” Ollie teased, holding the toy in his hands and making it wave to everyone on the bus.

“Oliver,” Bittle said softly, almost pleadingly, and that was something Jack couldn't take. Bittle had asked twice for his stuffed rabbit and his _teammate_ wasn't having his back at all. It was unacceptable. This was not the chirpy hard-time the guys all gave each other when they screwed up at practice, or had a crush, or drank too much, or did a walk-of-shame. This was cruel. This was picking on a vulnerability that left Bittle distressed and closing in on himself as his shoulders slouched and his spine curved and tears started to gather at the corners of his eyes and dammit, Bittle should never have that look of desperation on his face ever!

Jack was standing next to Ollie in seconds and easily took the stuffed rabbit from him before the Frog even knew what was happening.

“Get back to your seat, O'Meara,” Jack ordered in his most stern captain's voice.

Ollie didn't even try to argue and scuttled away. Jack gave the rest of the team a cold and commanding glower, his icy blue gaze tracing the bus until everyone turned away from the scene. Sure that no one was watching, at least not conspicuously, Jack turned his attention back to Bittle. The eighteen year old was staring at him warily, face pinched and miserable as he waited for Jack to make a move. Sharply, Jack thrust the hand holding the toy rabbit out to Bittle and jutted his chin out in an indication that he wanted Bittle to take it. Like a timid chipmunk, Bittle reached out and quickly snatched the toy from Jack, folded it in his arms, and sat back down with his back to his captain. Jack stood for a few moments, debating, before gently settling himself beside the freshman.

He waited silently as Bittle ignored him, the young man refusing to tear his gaze away from the window for nearly a half hour before the tension in his crossed arms started to sag and he turned his head a fraction towards Jack. Reluctantly, Bittle indicated to Jack that he was listening.

“My socks are seven years old.”

Eric turned his head so he was fully facing Jack, brown eyes wide and brow creased in confused concern.

“The day I got in the Q, I was wearing these socks.” He crossed one leg so that his ankle was resting on his knee and pulled up the hem of his trousers. Bitty bit back a giggle. They were yellow, mustard coloured would be his guess, but time and age had turned what must have been a horrendously loud pair of socks into something duller and more on the grey side. They were threadbare, too, and Bitty wouldn't be surprised if there were some holes in the toes or heel.

“Jack,” he whispered, “that's the ugliest sock I've ever seen.”

Jack rolled his eyes and nudged at Bitty's shoulder as he covered up his atrocious sock.

“Whatever. I'm just saying, we all have our good luck charms, eh?”

“And you showed me your rank socks to try and get that point across?” Bitty chirped, unable to hold back his mirth at the ridiculousness of Jack's attempt at cheering him up. Then he was smiling because _Jack_ was trying to cheer him up. Somehow, that is what made everything better. ' _This boy,_ ' he thought fondly to himself before slouching in his seat and letting himself list towards Jack, shoulders and arms touching. “Do you wear those to every game?”

“Yes,” Jack replied, turning so that his breath gently blew across the crown of Bitty's head. It was nice. “What I was trying to say is that they've been through a lot with me, just like Monsieur Lapin has been with you, I bet.”

“Yeah,” Bitty admitted quietly, holding his bunny close to his heart as he let himself relax against Jack's side. “we've been through a lot...

_ X_

**Five months earlier...**

“Coach, please –”

“I told you, Eric, you need to leave tonight. I don't want to know where you're going. In fact, I don't care. Just go!”

Eric didn't move, his chest hurting from crying, hands clutching desperately to Coach's sleeve. He hadn't looked at Eric even once since sneaking him out of the Madison Institute and driving him for hours out of Atlanta before eventually pulling over in the middle of an endless field of farmland and dirt roads. The escape had been so frantic, so unexpected and desperate that all Eric had was the clothes on his back and the knapsack Coach had all but thrown at him when he'd pulled over and told Eric to get out of the car.

“Is it because I was bad? I'm sorry, Coach. I'll be good. I'll do better, please, please, please!”

His throat felt raw from crying so hard, devastated at being abandoned by the man he thought of as his father, and even more hurt as it seemed that Coach couldn't care less about this callous betrayal. Eric thought Coach loved him, but maybe that had been a lie. Maybe all Eric was to this brilliant man was a failed project.

“Eric, I'm begging you,” Coach whispered, his voice straining as if he were struggling to hold back a great tidal wave that threatened to consume him. He took a few deep breathes through his nose before finally bringing himself to look at Eric. “I'm sorry.”

Eric's fingers went slack on Coach's sleeve, his heart breaking at how the man next to him seemed to sag in his seat.

“What's going on, Coach? Has something happened? Am I in trouble?” Eric asked. Coach managed to repress a wretched grimace before reaching across to Eric and cupping the back of his head and pulling him close. Eric sighed the moment his brow touched Coach's, feeling safe for the first time since the pair had started this insane car ride. Coach wasn't abandoning him. They were family, father and son, and that bond wouldn't be broken.

“You're not in trouble, Eric,” Coach whispered, his breath warm against Eric's cheek, soothing like a lullaby. “I promise you're not in trouble...and you never will be if you go now.”

The warm cocoon that Eric had started to imagine wrapping around them shredded like the fragile thread of a spider's web. He pulled back from Coach, hurt, confused, not knowing how this man could seem to love him so much when he was insisting on pushing him away.

“I'm scared,” Eric confessed, ashamed. He had done little else but complain to Coach that he wanted to leave the Institute as soon as his body had been ready, so eager to explore the world. Had he whined so much that Coach had decided to let Eric go out into the world he'd so badly wanted to see? “I don't know what I'm supposed to do all by myself.”

“You walk, and you lay low, and you live, Eric. Promise me that you'll really live. Do all of the things you told me you wanted to do.”

“But how –”

“You're smart,” Coach said fondly, smiling sadly as he caressed Eric's temple, tucking some of the blond hair behind his ear. “You'll figure it out.”

Coach sounded so sure of Eric, it spurred the young man to reach over and hug Coach tightly.

“I'll miss you,” he said, the tears coming again as he accepted his fate. They held each other for a long time before Eric worked up the nerve to let Coach go and open the door.

“Don't forget the bag,” Coach reminded, trying to act as casually as a father dropping his son off at school. For a moment, it almost made Eric forget that was being abandoned in the middle of nowhere at twilight. “Take this, too,” he said, thrusting a credit card into Eric's hand and telling him the access code. Eric stored the information immediately into his hard drive. “Be smart with that. I'll have to report it stolen in 24 hours.”

“OK.”

“And I want you to have this, too.”

Eric was surprised when Coach placed the well-worn velveteen rabbit gently into his hands. He'd thought it might be some identity documents, or a map, or food, but it was something much more precious.

“Coach, I can't –”

“He's yours,” Coach insisted, wrapping Eric's fingers snugly against the toy and offering him a sad smile. “Please take care of yourself.”

Eric clutched the rabbit to his chest, knowing what it meant for Coach to give up the child's toy and hoping that the man understood how touched Eric was by the gesture. After all, Senor Bun meant just as much to him as it did to Coach. It had been his first gift, his constant companion through surgeries and rehab and hiding...his first friend. In some ways, having Senor Bun made it feel as if Coach wasn't abandoning him completely.

“Bye, Coach,” he said, looking at the man who he loved like a father for the last time. It wasn't a long look. After all, Eric could imprint the image of Coach to his hard drive and have it forever. But he didn't want to remember this moment. In fact, as soon as his feet touched the gravel road, Eric wanted nothing more than to forget everything. He shut the door behind him, put the backpack on, tucked Senor Bun in a side pocket and started walking.

And when he heard the car turn around and drive away, Eric didn't look back.

 

_ X_

“...so what's his name?” Jack asked, giving the toy cradled in Bitty's arms a fond look. It made Bitty's heart melt just a little and he blushed when he answered.

“Senor Bun.”

“Ah, bonjour, Senor,” Jack teased, nodding to the toy.

“You're ridiculous,” Bitty chuckled, nudging Jack's shoulder. Jack just shrugged and stayed sitting beside Bitty, clearly not intending to move until they were back at Samwell. Surprised at how much comfort he took from the presence of the man at his side, Bitty kindly offered Jack one earbud and switched to a playlist of 80s music for them to share for the rest of the ride.

And even though he wasn't sure Jack could hear him over the powerful melodies of Heart, Bitty hugged Senor Bun close and sincerely said to his captain 'thank you'.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is wondering, Jack and Bitty are listening to 'Alone' by Heart. I think this song is pretty on the nose as to where they both are in their relationship. 
> 
> As always, thanks to everyone who has been enjoying this fic. I apologize that I'm not updating very regularly, but I promise that I am working on this story and will see it through to the end.
> 
> Please kudos and comment if you are feeling so inclined. 
> 
> Take care!


	9. Of Fathers and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parents' Weekend is fast approaching and it's bringing with it all of the feels.

“Come on, Zimmermann! Mush! Mush!”

“You need to stop eating so much pie, Bittle. You're fucking heavy!”

“Rude,” Bitty chirped, smiling as he tugged on the harness latched around Jack's waist, keeping them tethered as they raced around the rink. It had been another early morning of checking practice, thankfully cut in half by Bitty's insistence that they work on Jack's speed drills as had been agreed upon when they took up this one-on-one four in the morning training weeks ago.

It was actually a lot of fun.

Besides getting to be the one bossing Jack around, it was thrilling to defy expectations, even if all the expectations were was that he was short and slight, ergo he must also be light as a feather. Bitty was well aware he looked like a kid who weighed no more than one hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, but the metal in his body that reinforced his skeleton made him strong and heavy. It had been funny to see Jack's face when he first tried to pull Bitty behind him, a sort of shocked, bug-eyed, open mouthed goldfish expression. Once he'd picked up some momentum it was fine, but Bitty could tell Jack was still surprised at how hard it actually was to tow the teen.

It made Bitty laugh, and he really needed something to laugh about.

He'd had his much anticipated date with Mr. Gorgeous the night before. They'd started out at Annie's for lattes (and Noah introduced Bitty to Bitty's new true love, the PSL) and then went for a walk around campus. They talked and joked and by the end of the date both realized that they had absolutely nothing in common. Besides finding each other very attractive, they didn't agree on anything else. Even when they decided to kiss each other, just to check if their attraction really was all they had going for them, they approached the act from completely different angles.

For Bitty it was his first kiss, so he had raised daintily on his toes and leaned in, closed pursed lips and a gentle touch, shyly seeking. Mr. Gorgeous on the other hand, had gone after Bitty with an open mouthed thirst, lips too wet and tongue too eager and the whole thing had left Bitty feeling a bit repulsed. Still, he was a polite Southern gentleman, so he delicately confessed he felt they weren't going to work, was pleased when Noah agreed, and waited until his date was out of sight before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

It had been disappointing, the cloud of it hovering over Bitty for the rest of his Saturday. Even the pies he'd made at the Haus were a touch sour, though the boys didn't seem bothered. They'd demolished the raspberry pies with the same gusto and appreciation they'd eaten everything he'd made them so far. It was nice to have his team to fall back on when things weren't going so well. In fact, for the first time since they'd started, Bitty had looked forward to his and Jack's checking practice. It gave him something to think about that wasn't about how his first kiss had kinda sucked.

' _I bet Jack kisses like a dream_ ,' Bitty thought, then nearly lost his balance.

“OK back there?” Jack asked.

“Fine. I'm fine. It's fine,” Bitty said, looking down at his skates as if that would make his feet cooperate. He did manage to regain his footing, ready to keep up with Jack, but as he raised his gaze he found himself caught by the hypnotic sway of Jack's truly magnificent butt. “Shit,” he whispered under his breath, but he didn't look away.

The pair enjoyed another fifteen minutes of skating around the rink before Jack called it a day. Smiling and flushed, they made their way to the locker room for quick showers and wardrobe changes. Bitty grumbled as he tied his boots, fidgeting as Jack stood by the door, waiting.

“Come on, Bittle.”

“Hold your horses, buckaroo!” Bitty called back as he adjusted his cardigan before putting his jacket on. “Some of us weren't born in the middle of the frigid winter wastelands of Canada.”

“I was born in August,” Jack chirped back, crossing his arms which were clad in nothing save for a t-shirt, no sweater or jacket in sight. “And I come from Quebec, which is nothing close to a wasteland. Ontario though...”

“Is that supposed to be one of your great Canadian witticisms?” Bitty huffed, hoisting his bag across his shoulders.

“Ransom would have laughed,” Jack insisted.

“Liar. I've heard your epic fights with him over the Leafs and the Canadiens,” Bitty countered and laughed as Jack shuttered exaggeratedly, just as he did every time someone alluded to the Maple Leafs.

The pair made their way out of Faber, shoving shoulders playfully as they walked away from the arena, turning easily down the sidewalk in the direction of Bitty's dorm. It was sweet of Jack to always walk Bitty back to his dorm, or the Haus if Bitty said that's where he'd rather go. Once Bitty had commented that he needed more butter so Jack had walked with him to the Murder Stop n' Shop and even carried a few bags back to the Haus where Bitty had made Jack a special peach crumble.

That had been a few days after Jack had met Senor Bun.

In fact, when Bitty thought about it, things between himself and Jack had been really nice since the game with Colgate. It felt like they were friends, maybe even something close to best friends, which had to be the reason why Bitty always felt so warm and fuzzy when he was with Jack (and Jack's butt; Jack's butt could inspire warm fuzzy feelings in the Snow Queen). Getting to know Jack as more than just his captain over the last few weeks had been nice. He knew his favourite colour was red, that he was allergic to strawberries, that he'd always wanted a pet dog but that the hockey life made owning a pet hard, and that he was the biggest history nerd on campus, maybe even Massachusetts.

Bitty also knew, without even an inkling of a doubt, that he could trust Jack. And knowing that so whole-heartedly made the secret of his existence so difficult to keep to himself. It had never been Bitty's intention to tell anyone about what he was, and Coach had been so adamant that he keep the secret that Bitty felt he'd be betraying the man if he even whispered the truth. But Jack had proven himself to be understanding and sympathetic and kind and maybe...maybe he wouldn't freak out too much if Bitty told him what he was.

Maybe.

It was on the tip of Bitty's tongue to say something, to interrupt Jack's adorable tirade on the travesty that was the Maple Leafs and how Ransom was being blinded by his Torontonian pride and say _'hey Jack, I'm kinda of a robot...like, I've got titanium alloy lining every bone in my body and 15% of my brain is a supercomputer, and my left arm is one giant port to charge the battery attached to my heart and the whole reason I came to Samwell was because I thought maybe you were a robot too – silly right? – and anyway, that's why I'm so heavy to pull...cuz I'm part machine. We're still friends, right?_ '

“So, are your parents coming to Parents' Weekend?” Jack asked, pulling Bitty out of his imagined confession before he got to the parts where he considered Jack's reaction, both good and bad.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, blushing and lowering his gaze. “My parents! Um...well, no. They can't make it,” he said shyly, praying that Jack would drop the topic.

“That's too bad. Why not?”

' _Shit!_ ' Bitty cursed silently.

“Well...” Bitty paused, searching his hard drive for a reasonable excuse and deciding that giving a vague truth would be best. “My dad works for a really big company in Georgia,” he started. “Like a research and development lab. He's a scientist. He's pretty high up, too. So he's busy a lot.”

“Oh. Too busy to come visit?”

“I think he has an important conference or something that weekend.”

“What about your mom?”

' _Oh my Lord Jack, fucking drop it!_ ''

“Um, Mama's not around,” Bitty said, hoping that would be the end of the interrogation.

“That sucks, man,” Jack said sympathetically, giving Bitty's shoulder a comforting squeeze that surprised the teenager and nearly made him lose his footing. He stumbled a bit into Jack's side, throwing his own arm around the other man's middle to regain his balance. And though he did let go of Jack as soon as he was able, Bitty thought maybe Jack held on to him a bit longer than was necessary, and possibly even squeezed his shoulder one more time before letting his hand slide away.

“What about you?” Bitty asked, needing a distraction to get his heart to stop pounding so terribly against his chest (was it possible to fry his battery on embarrassment alone?)

“Hmm?” Jack replied as they made their way to the front door of Eric's dorm building.

“Your parents? Are they coming next weekend?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jack answered and he took a pause to swallow thickly before looking down at Bitty. “My dad's coming.”

“That's nice,” Bitty said and then noticed the way Jack seemed to flinch. “Isn't it?”

“I'll see you at practice, Bittle,” Jack said in reply, curtly ending their conversation and rushing away as if he had a swarm of bees on his tail. Bitty watched Jack until he was out of sight, perplexed by the reaction his captain had given at the mere mention of his father seeing one of his games. But then, Bitty had read the articles about Bad Bob, and he knew Jack's history with anxiety and hockey and how it was all one big blob of a mess that Jack was obviously still dealing with.

Bitty dug out his key and entered his building, hoping Jack would be alright. After all, Bitty knew just how complicated relationships between fathers and sons could be.

 

_ X _

 

**Three Years Earlier...**

 

The boy in the picture didn't look anything like Eric. He was very young for starters, maybe eleven. And he was pudgy with a round face, round shoulders and round belly. His smile was sweet and lovely despite the braces and his eyes were very soft and kind. With his mop of ruddy curls and a familiar stuffed rabbit nestled on top of them, the boy in the photograph looked truly happy to have been caught in a moment of play.

Eric couldn't help but wonder.

“Coach? What was he like?”

Dr. Coach looked up from his computer and saw Eric regarding the framed picture. It was the first time he had let Eric sneak into his office and he was a bit nervous about the external pacemaker possibly being bumped or otherwise disturbed as Eric explored, so he had made the young man promise not to move from the couch that faced the luxurious floor to ceiling windows that took up one whole wall of his office. He'd thought that Eric would be entranced by the Atlanta skyline, but he wasn't too terribly surprised that Eric's attention had been taken up the photo that had once been the pride of the doctor's desk.

Saving his work on the experimental port he was designing for Eric, Coach closed his laptop and moved to sit beside Eric. He took the frame from him and smiled sadly at the picture. He'd been the one who had captured the moment, having sneaked home early from a European conference and surprising his family. He remembered creeping into his house and finding his wife and son in the backyard, Suzanne drinking sweet tea and reading a romance novel while Junior had been lost in his own world of make-believe, pretending he was a contestant on American Idol. Seeing Junior with Senor Bun on his head and singing horribly off-key had been too adorable, and Coach had been compelled to take out his phone and cry for an encore which had his son turning around and smiling that brace-faced grin and allowing Coach to capture that perfect moment forever.

And when there had been no more perfect moments, when the image of Junior's smile had become too much to bear, Coach had moved the picture off his desk and on to the farthest side table he had in his office, unable to simply discard the photo, but also unable to keep it close.

“His Mama called him Dicky,” Coach started, fingertips stroking the curls in the picture as if he could still feel them against his skin. “We called him Richard, after me. Richard Elias Coach Junior. Bit of a mouthful, so Suzanne called him Dicky. He liked Junior better, though, but he never wanted to hurt his Mama's feelings, so he never corrected her. He was a gentle boy, very kind. Told us when he was eight that he wanted to be a vegetarian cuz his class had just read Charlotte's Web and he couldn't stand the thought of the bacon on his plate being poor Wilbur. The boy loved food, though. Sweets were his favourite, o'course. He loved his MeeMaw's pies best, could gobble them up whole in one sitting if he wanted. Every Sunday we'd go visit her and she'd have a piece of cake or tart or cobbler waiting for him, and usually a pie for him to take home.”

Smiling sadly, Coach stretched across the couch and put the picture back on the side table.

“That's how I knew you weren't him. My boy loved to eat, but he couldn't boil water if he tried. What you did with some dry ramen noodles, spices and limp vegetables he could never have done.”

Eric squirmed in his seat, still feeling terribly guilty about that whole incident. He'd just been so excited to be able to walk without a walker and he knew that the Institute was closed for a long weekend holiday because Coach had brought him games and DVDs and food and a phone and told him he'd be away for three days and to stay put and rest.

And Eric had rested...for about an hour.

And then he was bored.

So he got up and walked around the lab. Then he got curious and started fooling around with the lab's key code lock, just playing with the numbers and utilizing his computer enhanced brain to give it a real challenge. He never thought he'd actually figure out the code, and once he'd done that the temptation to explore was too strong to ignore. Eric had wandered all around the Institute that weekend, stumbling upon the canteen and said ramen noodles and limp vegetables. After having binge watched Master Chef for weeks, Eric thought he'd try a hand at the culinary arts and had ended up making a remarkably delicious soup which he portioned and saved to share with Coach once he'd returned.

Of course, when Coach did return he hadn't been pleased at all.

Eric hadn't taken into consideration that the building was wired completely with security cameras and that his weekend explorations had been captured for anyone to find. That anyone just so happened to be a security guard that was very chummy with Coach and as he had noticed that the unauthorized youth had come from Coach's lab, he'd reported the trespasser to him directly. Coach had lied that Eric was his nephew who Coach had given his pass code and keys to so that he could tour the Institute on his own as he was thinking of going into research once he finished high school. Apparently, Coach's security friend didn't seem very convinced, but the guarantee of a generous year end bonus had earned the man's silence on the matter, as well as allowed Coach access to the security tapes where he could erase all of Eric footage.

Eric remembered how Coach had lectured him as they spent hours together working on altering the film. He also remembered that Coach had eaten all of his portion of the soup.

“I'm sorry,” Eric said, reaching out to place his hand on Coach's arm. “I'm sorry I'm not more like him. I'm sorry...I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted.”

“No,” Coach said strongly, taking Eric's hand in his and squeezing. “What I did, trying to bring him back, that wasn't right. I should have known, Eric. I should have known that I could never bring my boy back. Science can do amazing things, it made you...but it can't make a human soul. It will never be able to do that.”

“But why not?!” Eric cried standing up. “It doesn't make any sense. Your son has been dead for two years, but you kept his brain alive. You fixed it. Then you put it in this body and you made this heart start beating again and you brought everything back to life so why can't I remember anything?!”

“Because you're not Junior. You're Eric.”

“But I want to be Junior for you!” Eric cried, tears of frustration and grief spilling out of the corners of his eyes as he turned away to face the Atlanta skyline, embarrassed to let this remarkable man see him crack. “I hate that I can't remember anything. I hate that I'm nothing like him. I hate that I'm not him because if I'm not him it means you're sad and I don't want you to be sad. Coach...I'm alive because of you. I can never...I'm just so grateful. And I don't really understand how you did it; how you took a brain and a computer and a body and pacemaker and somehow made all of them work together to make me. I don't know what I am or who I am, but I do know that I'm not Junior and I'm not the person whose body this once was, and that scares me. I wish I was your son because then things wouldn't be so scary.”

“Eric,” Coach said, moving to stand beside him.

The pair stood together looking out over the city for a long time, the silence between them thick with so much said and unsaid that neither knew where to begin.

“Did I ever tell you that Junior was gay?”

Eric shook his head.

“He never told me, but I suspected. The way he talked about boys in his class instead of girls around the age when that should have been changing, and how he'd blush and stare at the magazine covers with handsome men in suits as if he were mesmerized were just a few hints. I was waiting for him to tell me, and I had a whole speech prepared to let him know that I loved him no matter who he decided to love. But then...”

The words hung in the air for a long, breathless moment before Eric found the courage to speak.

“How did Junior die?”

Coach had to swallow several times before he found his voice.

“Suzanne and I were going to California for my work. I was receiving an award and Junior was fifteen, old enough to stay home alone for a weekend, so Suzanne and I decided to make a little holiday out of it for the two of us. We left the Friday morning. Before he left for school we told him to call us and check in before Saturday night. Junior was a good boy, and he'd never say 'no' to his Mama, so when Saturday came and went and we didn't hear from him we knew something wasn't right. Suzanne had called a neighbour to check in on Junior and I remember we were on a wine tasting tour in Napa Valley when we got the call that Junior wasn't at home.

“We knew something was wrong right there and then. We came home early. His bed hadn't been slept in. We called his friends, his grandparents, and nothing. Junior was just gone. We went to the police station, spent hours answering questions and filling paperwork and Suzanne was screaming at the detectives that her son was no runaway. That night we never slept. All I remember is the phone ringing Monday morning, a little before six.

“He'd been found. Very badly dehydrated, hurt like you'd never believe, his eyes swollen shut, ankle broken, arm shattered and whole body beaten blue. Seems that some kids at his school, they'd picked up on Junior probably being gay and had been giving him a hard time. His friends told us that the bullying had been happening since the start of the school year but that Junior begged them to keep it a secret. Said he was handling it and didn't want anyone to worry. So I guess that Friday those bullies cornered him, beat him up so bad, broke his phone then locked him in a supply closet. It was the end of the day, so there was no one around to hear him crying for help. That weekend...it was the hottest Atlanta had had that year, and for a beat up young kid in a supply closet with no ventilation and no water for two and a half days...

“When the doctor's told us he had died...they said Junior's brain was too damaged from the heat and his body had gone into shock and then cardiac failure.

“We donated his organs. I still get cards sometimes from the people he helped save. But I kept his brain. I needed to see for myself how far gone it was...if there was anything I could do to make it better. I repaired the damage with microchips and computer processors. I thought about hooking the brain up to a computer and seeing if I could preserve something of Junior, but then an anonymous donation was made to the Institute: the body of an unknown young man who had committed suicide via gunshot to the head. The body was in perfect condition, the only damage was done to the brain and I got the idea to do something crazy.”

Eric stood still as Coach raised a hand to brush through his hair, waiting as the older man's fingers lingered along the scar hidden just above Eric's ear, knowing there was a matching one on the other side of his skull.

“You are a miracle Eric, and I never want you to feel sorry for that. It's my fault that I couldn't let go. I only wanted Junior to know that I was never ashamed of him...that I was so proud that he was my son. I thought if I could bring part of him back then I could...but I know now that I can't and that's something I need to live with. But I'm not going to make the same mistakes twice. So you listen to me, Eric, I am proud of you, of all that you are, and you are my son even if you aren't Junior. You're _my_ boy.”

Eric didn't know who leaned into who first, but as he and Coach hugged against the Atlanta skyline, Eric couldn't help the whirling emotions sending his brain into a tizzy. He'd known most of the story of his creation (Coach had been very candid about everything since Eric had first woken up in the lab months ago) but it was the first time he'd gotten all the details from start to finish. He'd always known that his brain belonged to Coach's son and that his body had once been someone else's whose history was lost in the streets of the city below. Somehow, the parts of these two people had been melded together to make the living breathing person christened by Doctor Coach as Eric.

He was the creation of a genius, perhaps not a son reborn but a son reincarnated. But that didn't answer the one glaring question that thrummed throughout the young man's body with every beat of his pacemaker-supported heart.

If he wasn't Junior then who was he? Who was Eric?

 

_ X _

 

**Present...**

 

Parents' Weekend found Bitty at the Haus bright and early to make breakfast for the boys before they all scurried off to meet with their folks. There was a lot of excited energy amongst the team as they planned to show off to their families. It didn't hurt the energetic buzz that by now everyone knew Bad Bob Zimmermann would be at their game that night. Bitty only hoped that Jack would be okay.

As for Bitty, he was eager to take advantage of the empty Haus to give the kitchen a really good scrub down and reorganize the cupboards. When he was done with those chores he pulled himself onto the counter so he could hang a new blind and some fresh curtains on the window over the sink when he heard the front door slam shut and angry stomps march directly for the kitchen.

“FUCK THIS WHOLE FUCKING DAY, FUCK!!!!!”

“Shitty Knight, what in the world –”

“I can't stand that fucking fuck!” Shitty cried before Bitty could finish asking what was wrong. “Oh, sorry , Bits,” he said, as if he'd only just realized his teammate was there. “What are you doing?”

“Hanging curtains.”

“Why aren't you with your parents?”

“They couldn't make it. Shitty, is everything OK?”

The raw concern in Bitty's voice was what finally made Shitty crack. The young man sunk into a kitchen chair, his whole body sagging as if under an immense weight. Slinkily, Bitty slid off the counter and went to the fridge. He knew there was at least a third of Mississippi mud pie left from yesterday (a true miracle!) and he placed the tin and fork down in front of Shitty before taking a seat and waiting for his friend to speak.

Shitty only took a moment to consider the pie before digging in, getting cream on his mustache immediately.

“I just found out my asshole dad is coming to the game.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And so is my mom.”

Bitty waited for Shitty to explain. It took him about five more bites of pie before he continued.

“They've been divorced for forever, and that's great, don't get me wrong. They were horrible together and I'm glad they split, but the whole point of the divorce was because they cannot be in the same room without my dad saying something condescending to my mom and she is a strong-ass woman but when he comes around flaunting his money and his business and his family she just gets so cowed by him cuz he's a spectacular blowhard and doesn't give anyone a chance to say two words as he criticizes every decision you've made since birth. Fuck, I can't stand him.”

“Sounds rough.”

“So rough, bro! He's been after me to be a lawyer since the womb. And I told him last year that I do want to be a lawyer, that I'm applying to Harvard just like he did and his dad did and so did every other Knight since the pilgrims crashed on Plymouth Rock, but I don't want to be a corporate dick defense lawyer who contributes nothing to the world, like him. And guess what, Bits? Big fucking surprise, even that's not good enough! Why do parents do this to their kids? Why do fathers want to emulate their lost ambitions onto their sons? I'm going to apply to Harvard. Why isn't that good enough for that self-righteous douchebag?

Bitty sighed in total empathetic understanding and reached out to give Shitty's hand a firm squeeze.

“Sorry about that, bro. Didn't mean to drag you down to my crappy state of mind. Although, your pie is raising my spirits,” Shitty said as he scrapped some chocolate mousse from the side of the tin. “Where'd you say your parents were?”

“Conference for work. They couldn't make it.” Bitty answered easily having gotten used to the lie since telling Jack a week ago.

“That sucks, Bits. Hey! Wanna have mine?!”

“Shitty –”

“No, no, hear me out. You, with your Southern charm and dapper personality can take my parents out for a tour of Samwell. Ma will love you right off the bat and douchebag will be charmed by your manners. Meanwhile, I'll stay here and hang your curtains and make pie and it'll be great!”

Bittty laughed long and hard before getting up and going back to his curtains.

“Thanks but no thanks, hun. I've got enough of my own daddy issues without adding yours to the pile.”

Shitty raised his fork in a genuine salute.

“Amen to that, Bits.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who has been reading and commenting and kudos-ing and just enjoying this story. I really love getting all of your feedback and knowing this little tale of mine is entertaining so many.
> 
> Cheers!


	10. Of Sons and Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the home game against Yale. Just when Bitty and Jack start to get closer, will a 'lucky shot' tear them apart?

**August 13 th, 2009 | Madison Institute of Technology | Atlanta, GA** 

“This is Doctor Richard Coach. Proceeding with E.R.I.C.B. test fifteen, trial one. OK, son, go ahead.”

Eric licked his lips. They had been dry since the night before when Coach had told him that they were finally going to give unassisted walking a try. The idea of moving without his walker or wheelchair wasn't as nerve-wracking as it should have been because in truth, Eric had been walking under his own strength for about two weeks.

It hadn't been easy, Eric's body still so new to him and often feeling so heavy due to the metal grafted to his bones, but the young man had enough determination in him to move mountains. So, when he'd decided that his surgery stitches had healed well enough for him to try simply standing on his own, he'd stubbornly taken the risk and practiced at night after Coach had gone home for the day. He remembered that first try, standing on shaky legs, not even able to make his spine or knees go straight, so he'd stood hunched like a troll under a bridge and counted to ten before collapsing on his bed, body aching and heart racing at the strain.

It had felt amazing.

Eric had practiced on his own every night since, careful not to overdue it less Coach become suspicious, but pushing himself just a little more each time until, after twelve days, Eric was able to take seven steps on his own before the strain became to much and he needed to clutch at his walker to keep from falling flat on his face.

He was able to walk, wobbly and with a bit of a toddler's waddle, but still, he was walking! He should have been thrilled when Coach announced the test. How wonderful it would be to see the look on Coach's face when Eric would stand and walk those seven fantastic steps around the lab. What a surprise it would be for the good doctor!

But instead of the anticipation of surprise, it was the metallic coil of anxiety that had clutched Eric through the night. He found that the idea of preforming made him more than a tad nervous. When he reflected on it further, Eric found it was the reality that he would be performing for Coach, that _Coach_ would be judging him, that left the young man feeling restless and twitchy and wishing he could make time stop so he wouldn't have to go through with the test at all.

But his wishes were impossible and now Eric found himself in the lab, sitting in his wheelchair and feeling Coach staring at him with the intensity of a laser, waiting for his creation to lift himself up and take a step. Eric tried to swallow but his throat was too dry and he had no spit. As he placed his hands on the arms of his chair, he fumbled trying to lift himself up because they were clammy with sweat. When he finally did manage to get to his feet he was shaking so bad he had to sit down again before even attempting to take a single step.

“It's alright, son. Just take your time.”

“Sorry, Coach. I don't know what's – I just want to get it right.”

“That's fine, Eric. But remember, it's never gonna be right the first time. It takes practice and lots of it.”

Eric wanted to shout at Coach that he had been practising, that he _had_ gotten it right the first time and he was angry because he wanted everything to go perfectly for this first trial but he was failing miserably because the thought of messing everything up in front of Coach was giving him a panic attack!

But Eric was stubborn, and instead of telling Coach that he was nervous of being watched, the young man forced himself to stand, ignored his body's tremors and didn't properly balance his weight when he let go of his chair and made himself take that first step.

His ears rang when he hit the mat, arm and hip pulsing in a dull pain at the impact. Rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in his arms, Eric let the tears come, his body convulsing under the sobs of pain and shame and anxiety. He shied away when he felt Coach touch his back gently.

“Eric, it's alright. We'll take a break, try again later, or even tomorrow.”

“Go away,” Eric croaked. “Please, Coach. Leave me alone.”

He couldn't make himself say that he hated that Coach was seeing him so weak, that he was able to walk just fine without an audience and if Coach would just not look Eric could walk around the lab. All Eric felt was such shame at not being the perfect son he should be for this wonderful man that his body and mind felt drowned in the emotion. He wished Coach would let him be.

But he didn't.

Coach didn't speak again, and he took his hand off Eric's back, but he remained sitting beside him on the mat, waiting patiently for Eric to say when he was ready, seemingly content to care for him even if he never walked on his own.

Eric realized then that he loved Coach with the unmeasurable limits that a child loves their parent.

That's what made not being perfect so very hard.

_X_

**Present Day...**

 

Bitty was embarrassed to admit that it took him almost fifteen full minutes of rummaging through the old creepy storage room in Faber before he realized that maybe Ransom and Holster with just joking with him about the jockstrap run.

“See if I bake ya'll's favourite cookies ever again,” he muttered under his breath, jockstraps in hand as he started making the long way back to the locker room. He stopped, though, when he heard a familiar grumble from beyond the exit to the docking area.

“Ca va, ouais. Ca va, euh, un peu...NON, NON, NON—”

The desperate bite in the words gave Bitty pause. The door was propped open and though he was already feeling the niggling tug of guilt at eavesdropping, Bitty peeked beyond the door and blinked against pink rays of the setting sun as he searched for the only person he knew with that rhythmic French accent.

“...non. J'veux que tu viennes Papa. Je te jure. Tu sais que mon anxiéte va être un problème peu importe . C'est pas toi! Papa...désole. Ouais. Désole...d'accord...Je doit rentrer...Bye. Merci.”

Jack was easy to spot, sitting on the edge of the docking platform, back against the steel door, head in one hand while the other crunched in his dark hair.

“Shit...” he sighed, voice cracking and sounding unbearably defeated. The poor boy looked in desperate need of a hug, and while Bitty was sure Jack wouldn't accept the embrace, maybe he would be agreeable to a bit of company.

“...um...are you OK?”

Jack nearly lost his balance from his narrow seat, jumping when he heard Bitty's voice and moving quickly to wipe at his eyes before turning to stare at the blond boy. Bitty politely refrained from commenting on the splotches of red that stained the whites of Jack's eyes, or how his cheeks seemed puffier than normal. Coming outside and putting the box of jockstraps down at the landing, Bitty began carefully making his way down the cement stairs and towards Jack.

“Sorry. I was coming back from the old equipment room and I heard you – well, I mean, I didn't know it was you at first – ”

“It's fine,” Jack interrupted. “Bittle? Did you...uh, did you...could you hear –”

“I didn't understand,” Bitty stressed as he got closer to Jack, approaching him so slowly, almost like he would a wounded wolf in the forest. He felt a slight pinch of guilt for lying. Coach had downloaded over a dozen languages in Bitty's hard drive, including French. And while Jack hadn't said anything terrible, just a fact about his anxiety and reassurance that he wanted his dad to come, even if it did all come out a bit harsh, Bitty could see it was important to Jack that he not know what was said between son and father, so Bitty did the kind thing and played ignorant.

The way Jack's shoulders sagged and the muscles around his eyes relaxed, Bitty knew he had done the right thing. Feeling more welcome than he had when he'd first wandered into this private moment, Bitty hoisted himself up on the docking platform, elbow and shoulder brushing against Jack's before he got himself comfortable and a safe hand's width distance of space between the two young men.

“Ransom and Holster trick you into going on a jock run, again?”

“No!” Bitty shrieked indignantly. “I'll have you know I need all of those.” The lie sounded pathetic, even to Bitty, but it made Jack's mouth twitch in something that could have been a grin, so that made it better.

“Whatever helps your game, Bittle.”

“Heh...so, what about you? Pre-game jitters at all?”

“No...well, maybe something kind of like that...not really, though.”

“Hey,” Bitty said, voice soft and kind.

He crossed his legs and turned towards Jack. His heart ached when he saw that Jack wouldn't look up at him, distracted by a crack in the pavement it seemed. So Bitty scooted a little closer, just enough that their thighs were almost-not-quite-but-just-about touching, and mustering all of his courage, he placed a hand on Jack's wrist. He didn't squeeze it, didn't rub a soothing thumb along the pale, warm ( _so soft_ ) skin, he just let his hand rest on the joint, fingers curling around but not with any force. Jack didn't react to the touch and in fact Bitty was almost certain Jack sighed when the contact was made, but that was foolish thinking, of course. Bitty just needed Jack's attention for a moment, and this connection seemed the fastest and easiest way to get it. Though he still didn't look at Bitty, the young man knew his captain was listening.

“I can't rightly say that I understand what you must be feeling. But you know, whenever I knew my dad was watching me, especially during tests, it seemed I always fumbled. I'd get nervous, wanting everything to go perfectly when he was around. I'd practice and practice and I could do everything just fine when he wasn't looking, but the moment his eyes were on me...it was like I'd forgotten how to walk. And I never really got over it, I just sorta...I guess I just found a way to get on with it, but because I wanted to succeed, not because he wanted me to.

“I'm not sure I'm making much sense. All I really wanted to say was, I can't imagine what it must feel for you when your dad watches you play...but I think I can relate.”

Quiet settled between the boys, the sound of wind rustling leaves and a far away echo of people arriving at the arena all that Bitty or Jack could hear. Bitty still had his had over Jack's wrist, an anchor keeping them together. Not for the first time, Bitty felt the overwhelming need to tell Jack his secret. He wanted to tell Jack that, if Jack didn't mind, they could be hockey robots together, a team made of just the pair of them, facing off against the rest of the world.

“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack finally said, raising his face to look at his teammate. His eyes were no longer puffy and he appeared to be the confident captain Bitty was used to.

“I should be thanking you,” he replied, patting Jack's wrist before letting go, never noticing that Jack's icy blue gaze followed his hand as it left him, staring at his fingers with something that could have been called longing. “Without your checking clinics, I'd be a hot mess right now.”

“You'll be fine,” Jack reassured, getting up from the docking platform and stretching his back. “Just promise me you won't crumple up into a ball at centre ice."

“Chirp, chirp, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty said with an eyeroll. He was surprised when he realized that Jack was holding out his fist towards him, lips quirked to the left in a smirk as he waited patiently. It took Bitty far too long to realize what Jack was waiting for.

“Oh! A fist bump! I didn't know you did those!” he exclaimed happily as he curled his fingers into a fist and tapped them playfully against Jack's.

“Heh. You gotta work for them,” Jack responded, slapping Bitty on the shoulder before heading to the door. Bitty chuckled and followed Jack, stopping for a moment to pick up his discarded box of jockstraps and then making his way back to the locker room.

_X_

Bitty didn’t know how he got the puck.

One moment he was skidding right as 18 slammed Shitty into the boards, and the next the puck was cradled in the blade of his stick and he had the whole of Yale’s first line on his tail. Bitty didn't even think about it. He just bolted for Yale's goalie as fast and as stealthily as he could. His ears were ringing with adrenaline, his vision going tunnel save for the sharp focus he had on Yale's net and goalie with the bad glove. He thought maybe his team was hollering at him, each other, Yale, he couldn't tell. All Bitty knew was he had the puck, the game was tied 0-0, and there was about one minute left on the clock.

Later that night, when Shitty would retell the story in his epic, booming voice, he would compare Bitty's skating to watching a plane barreling down a runway for take-off: a perfect machine gaining speed as it charged faster and faster until it was in the air, soaring over the rest of the mere mortals stuck on the ground, helpless to do anything but let the mighty metal bird cut through the air and go wherever it pleased.

And while Bitty would blush at the praise, the truth was, from the moment he had the puck to the moment he took the shot at Yale's net, he couldn't say he'd been conscious of how he'd gotten from one end of the rink to the other so fast. All he knew was that he was facing an onslaught of heavy, hairy, scary Yale defense men as he got closer to the net, realized he had only a very small opening to take the shot, so he bit his lip, closed his eyes, and did it.

And the puck went in.

He heard the buzzer and screams of victory from the Samwell fans in the arena. He saw his teammates charge at him but slow down when they got close enough to envelope Bitty in a hug that just about squeezed the life out of him. He thought maybe he had let out a squeaky 'oh my' as his friends tapped their helmets against his and they led him off the ice and towards the locker room.

The win was like walking through a dream filled with cheers and smiles and the fellas posing for outrageous selfies as if Bitty was some sort of celebrity. Most of them pulled at him to meet their families outside of the locker room, eager to show off their teammate and brag not just about his game winning goal, but about his manners, his generosity, his southern-isms, and especially his pie.

“Pleasure to meet you, young man,” Holster's mother said as she patted his shoulder then turned to be escorted from Faber by her son.

“I am toasting to your honour and glory, Bits!” Holster hollered, and Bitty laughed before turning around and nearly knocking himself out on the solid brick wall chest of the man that had slunk up beside him.

“Goodness! I'm sorry!”

“No, it's my fault.”

The accent made the hair on the back of Bitty's neck stand on end. It was familiar, but deeper, the vowels pronounced a little longer and the whole tone just a touch more foreign. When Bitty focused on the man in front of him he found himself blinking several times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. The man was smiling, waiting patiently for Bitty to get his bearings. All the while Bitty was trying to reconcile that he was face to chest with Bad Bob Zimmermann and that the man looked so much like Jack that Bitty was sure he could predict every grey hair Jack would one day grow.

“Oh! Um, wow...well, nice to meet you Bad B—I mean, uh –Mr. Zim...Jack – Mr. Jack's Dad.”

Bitty could feel the humiliating blush heating his cheeks as as Bad Bob took his hand and shook it heartily.

“Ha! You can just call me Bob,” the man chuckled. “Less of a mouthful.”

“Yes! I mean, of course – I mean, Bob, it's nice to meet you.”

“Bittle is the figure skater I was telling you about, Papa.”

Bitty was startled by Jack's interruption. He hadn't even heard his captain join them. Jack seemed a bit stiff standing next to his father, but he was scowling so that was normal, and Bitty was so pleased to know that Jack had spoken to his father about him that he beamed at his captain in shared victory.

“I must say, you're quite the surprise, Mr. Bittle. When I saw you first come out on the ice I was a bit worried, but you are _fast_ , and that was a clutch shot. Well done!”

“Wow. Well, erm, thank you, sir. I'm still surprised at the whole thing I almost can't believe it happened. Usually I'm kinda scared, but Jack's been helping me so much since preseason, credit for that shot should really go to him.”

Bitty regarded Jack fondly and was puzzled when it seemed that Jack flinched at the compliment.

“A good bounce is a good bounce,” Bob said, patting Jack on the shoulder. “And the credit is all yours, although it does an old man good to know his son is doing a good job and making friends. You two play really well together. Jack, you should talk to Coach Hall about getting Mr. Bittle on your line.”

“Papa, I'm gonna go shower up and get my gear and then we can go.”

“Alright Jack, I'll pull the car around.”

Jack nodded and rushed away, leaving Bitty and Bob to watch him go, Bitty perplexed by the harried escape, and Bob staring after his son with a resigned sadness that made his eyes seem the glisten with a whole world of unsaid feelings, just like Jack's did from time to time.

“Holy shit! That's Bad Bob Zimmermann!”

And with Ollie's fan-girl squee, Bitty found himself tucked neatly at Bob's side as several Samwell students, parents of said students, members of the Swallow and even some of Yale's hockey team converged on the NHL legend. Bitty was a bit overwhelmed by the small mob, especially when Bob diverted attention from himself to Bitty, the real star of the game, and used the distraction to slip away. Bitty admired Bob's fast thinking and did his best to accept the attention with grace and manners before making his own excuses and leaving the crowd.

He needed a shower, and then he thought he might go back to the Haus and have a few beers with whichever guys had to say goodbye to their families a bit early while they waited for the rest to return before the real party would begin. Just as he was about to slip into the locker room, however, Bitty spotted Jack, clad in his usual after game suit, slipping out a side entrance.

Needing to thank him, to really express how grateful he was to Jack for his guidance and patience, and explain that he really didn't think he could ever have gotten that goal without Jack as his captain, Bitty took chase, barely catching up to Jack as he followed him outside.

“Jack! Wait up!” Bitty called out, racing to catch up to his captain, taking the briefest of moments to admire the cut of Jack's figure in a suit before making himself remember why he'd chased him in the first place. “I just wanted to say good game, and what I said to your dad about you deserving credit, too, I meant it. Thank yo—”

“Bittle,” Jack cut in, the name sounding like gravel as he forced it out of his throat. The harshness that tinged the way Jack said his name made Bitty stop abruptly, as if there were a glass wall between them. “It was a lucky shot.”

And without turning to face Bitty, Jack walked away.

Bitty watched Jack go, his dark suited figure disappearing into the night like a shadow merging with ink. He collapsed down on the cement steps, shaken as if he'd just been punched in the gut, his body hurting as if Jack really had struck him. A lucky shot. That was all Jack thought of Bitty's hard work and skill in the game...just lucky.

And maybe Jack was right. Maybe it was just luck. Only, Bitty had thought he was getting good. Between their regular SMH team practices and the checking clinics and the few extra hours a week he'd been sneaking into Faber to skate, Bitty had thought he was getting really good.

Good enough to deserve his place on the team.

Good enough to do more than get assists; to get goals, and pretty great ones, too.

Good enough to have the respect of his teammates and coaches...

...good enough for Jack.

And that just crushed Bitty even more because why should he care what Jack's opinion of him was? He'd come to Samwell to find out that Jack was an absolute disappointment as far as hockey robots went and he should have stopped caring about Jack Zimmermann then and there. But Bitty had decided to stay at Samwell, to see if he could find out who he was as a member of the SMH team and in doing that he'd gotten to know Jack. They shared a love of the game and found connection with the sport. In so many ways, Bitty felt he was starting to understand who Eric Richard Bittle was and that discovery had so much to do with who he was when he was on the ice. He knew Jack understood that and Bitty wanted desperately to share in his newfound identity with his captain. He'd come to care about Jack so much, hockey robot or no, and it stung so badly to know that Jack didn't have even an inkling of care for Bitty in return.

He hadn't even flinched when he'd told Bitty the shot was lucky.

And to think, Bitty had almost told Jack the truth. Had been so close to revealing everything to him, to literally putting his life into Jack's hands. Even though it seemed like that was a bullet dodged, Bitty's heart felt as if it had been pierced and was bleeding out, slowly and painfully with each beat.

“Hey, s'up, bro?” a friendly voice asked kindly as a heavy varsity jacket was thrown over Bitty's shoulders. Bitty hadn't realized he'd started to shake until the warmth from the jacket began seeping over his shoulder and across his back. He looked to his right and found Shitty crouched beside him. He was smiling, like always, and his presence was so wonderful that Bitty could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill over the corners of his eyes. Without saying a word, Bitty leaned into Shitty's side and Shitty wrapped an arm around Bitty without hesitation.

Bitty laid against Shitty for several long, deep breaths, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his palms as he tried to make his voice work without shaking. There was so much bubbling up inside of Bitty that he was sure he was about to burst. He needed to talk to someone, needed to tell them all of his secrets, tell them about everything he'd been hiding since the day he'd first opened his eyes. He needed to rage and cry and talk himself hoarse until he was dry of every emotion he had.

Bitty knew Shitty was trustworthy. He knew Shitty cared about him. He knew Shitty would keep any secret he ever told him. Hell, Bitty was pretty sure that the second after he said ' _hey Shitty, so I'm kind of a robot_ ' that Shitty would smirk, say that was 'swawesome, and did he want to come by the Haus, get naked and smoke a bowl.

So he decided to do it.

Moving away from Shitty's embrace, Bitty wiped at his eyes again and looked back into the darkness that had swallowed Jack.

“Shitty,” he said, taking a deep breath, holding it, knowing Shitty would be silent and wait until Bitty said his piece. Finding his courage, Bitty swallowed and made his tongue cooperate. He opened his mouth and said clearly, calmly, and full of conviction, “I'm gay.”

It took Bitty almost a full minute to realize he'd not said what he'd meant to say.

Scrunching his brow in confusion, Bitty repeated himself.

“I'm gay.”

He chuckled.

“Wow. Um...I never...heh...I've never said that out loud before. Even to myself. I've never said the words. Weird.”

“Nah, not weird at all,” Shitty reassured, pulling Bitty close for a quick hug. Bitty wanted to argue that yes, it was very weird, especially considering what Bitty had wanted to confess was that he was part robot which had nothing to do with his sexuality (at least, he was pretty sure it didn't; just because Coach suspected Junior was gay never meant he was and who knows what the orientation of the person who'd once had his body had been – being gay was just another thing that Bitty was struggling with in the search for his own identity). And Bitty supposed that in the end, his confession to Shitty had been about who he was. The mess that was Bitty's creation had him confused so much that he often wondered if the things he felt were really his own feelings and all of that was tied into the fact that he was not totally human. Maybe it wasn't time to tell anyone the story of his birth, but just being able to say he was gay was at least a small step in alleviating his anxious search for himself.

He was Eric Richard Bittle. He was kind of a robot. He was a member of the Samwell Men's Hockey Team. And he was gay.

It wasn't a long list, but it was certainly something.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Shitty said kindly, gracing Bitty with a winning smile.

“Thanks for being...just being 'swawesome, Shitty,” Bitty said back.

“Fuckin, eh, little bro. Now, what do you say we go to the Haus, take off our pants, and smoke a bowl, hmm?”

Bitty laughed.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said as Shitty slapped him on the back and helped him to his feet so they could make their way back to the Haus together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate everyone's interest in this story. I have kept every one of your comments, kudos and bookmarks close to my heart and wish I could reach out and thank all of you face-to-face for sharing your enjoyment and also for your encouragement.
> 
> And don't worry, Jack and Bitty won't be at odds for long.
> 
> Cheers!


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